And clasps her cold,—but snow-white hands.
And now aloud she chaunts her strain
While fiercely roars the troublous main.
Now the white breakers curling shew
The dread abyss that yawns below,
And still she sighs, “the sound is sweet,
“It seems to say, Poor Marguerite!”
“Here will I build a rocky shed,
“And here I’ll make my sea-weed bed;
“Here gather, with unwearied hands—