The timid, nay, the stout heart fears
A storm’s approaching, that ’tis nigh.
The beautiful and sun-lit main,
Which greeted all at early morn,
Is dight with sullen clouds, and rain;
(Already is a jib-sail torn.)
The whistling wind seems full of woe—
The roy’l-top-gallant yard is broke;
The boatswain calls aloud, “Let go!”
And ere another word is spoke,