In sorrow o’er the deep.
Still from his noonday height,
The sun looks down in light;
Along the trackless realms of space,
The stars still run their midnight race;
The same green valleys smile, the same rough shore
Still echoes to the same wild ocean’s roar:—
But where the bristling night-wolf sprang
Upon his startled prey,
Where the fierce Indian’s war-cry rang,