Our sorrow would vent out in tears;
Nay, should we not, think, shun the sight,—
To see more than a thousand years
Of dismal relics prone to light? * * *
Now in the morn, when all was o’er,
And heaven reveal’d the glorious sun—
When the dire tempest roar’d no more,
And all those leaden clouds were gone—
It chanc’d the ocean’s limpid breast
Bore on and on a minor craft,