In her fond bosom. Nature never made
A mother to forget. Why, she had dared
Yon fiercest surge to save thee, or had plung'd,
Clasping thee close and closer, down,—down,—down,—
Where thou art going. Lo! the breakers rush
Bellowing, to demand thee. Shrink not, child!
Innocence need not fear. Sweet shalt thou sleep
'Mid ocean's sunless flowers. The lullaby
Of the mermaiden shall thy requiem be,
And the white coral thou didst love to mix