While lightnings, gliding o’er the wild profound,
Fire the broad bosom of the dashing main.
Now dies the voice of village mirth; no more
Is seen the friendly lantern’s glimmering light;
Safe in his cot, the shepherd bars his door
On thee, Eliza! and the storm of night.
In yon sequester’d grove, whose sullen shade
Sighs deeply to the blast, dost thou remain,
Still faithful to the spot, where he is laid,
For whom the tears of beauty flow in vain?