Make the ocean-cave our bed,
Though no eye of love might see
Where that shrouded grave shall be--
God! who hear'st the surges roll,
Deign to save the sailor's soul.
830. C. M. Madan's Coll.
Thanksgiving for Deliverance in a Storm.
1Our little bark, on boisterous seas,
By cruel tempests tossed,
Without one cheerful beam of hope,