Where some deep-buried treasure lay,
And all the shore heard night and day
His pitiful, dejected cry:—
“Be still, ye billows, cease your roar;
Ye must not smite so on the shore.
What do ye but disturb my dreams?
I can not love your foamy streams
That dance blood-mixed along the sands,
For ye bring death to these my strands.
Here lately lay a youth and bled,