When the winds are abroad, cannot waken his dream.
And see you that rock, with its surf-beaten side,
There the blood of my false love runs red with the tide;
The sea-mew screams shrilly, the white breakers rave--
In the foam of the billow I'll dance o'er his grave!'
"'Mid the roar of the tempest, the wind's hollow moan,
There rose on my chill'd ear a faint dying groan;
The billows raged on, the moon smiled on the flood,
But vacant the spot where the maniac had stood.
I turn'd from the scene--on my spirit there fell