But long the wrestling ocean wrought
Within my bosom: as a dream
My boyhood vanished, and I woke
Startled to manhood's early morn;
No father's hand my pride to yoke,
No mother's angel voice to warn.
No,—and the gentle vision, lost,
That once could curb my wayward will,
And lull my bosom passion-tossed,
With one soft whisper, "Peace, be still!"—