In Enn-Tell's port meanwhile, the pier along
Pressed forward, mute, dismayed, the anxious throng.
And as the billows howl, the lightnings flash,
And skies, lead-black, to earth seem like to dash;
Neighbours clasped hand to hand, and each one prayed,
Through superstition, speechless, while afraid.
Still as the port a sail did safely reach,
All shouting hurried forward to the beach:
"Father, is't you? Speak, father is it true?"
Others, "Hast seen my son?" "My brother, you?"