While far away
His children shiver in the hungry spray!
We, who of yore
On dainties fared, and silken garments wore,
Now all our fare,
Cold sand, and bitter brine, for wax and honey rare;
Our softest bed,
The crag that o'er those surges lifts its head;
Oft have we laid
Our limbs on beds of tenderest down arrayed.