Their trampling sounded nearer.
“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
“Though tempests round us gather,
I’ll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her—
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o’er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roar