Mother! who stands on the deck alone?
The child of thy bosom!—and lo! a brand
Blazing up high in her lifted hand!
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair
Sway’d by the flames as they rock and flare;
And her fragile form to its loftiest height
Dilated, as if by the spirit’s might;
And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught——
Oh! could this work be of woman wrought?
Yes! ’twas her deed!—by that haughty smile,