How the vulture bird of death, in its black and viewless form,
Hovered sure o’er the clamors of his prey,
While through all their dripping shrouds yells the spirit of the storm.
Bear a hand!
Now, out reefs! Brace the yard! Lively there!
Oh, no more to homeward breeze shall her swelling bosom spread;
But Love’s expectant eye bids Despair
Set her raven watch eternal o’er the wreck in ocean’s bed!
Board your tacks! Cheerly, boys! But for them
Their last evening gun is fired—their gales are over blown!