Who can say there is no pleasure
Thus to walk the night alone,
Listening to the night-bird’s music,
Or the boatman’s solemn tone?
Where is there a spot more lovely,
Where the vail of night hangs o’er?
Where another place more lovely
Than this silent lake-side shore?
The Tempest.
We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,
It was midnight on the waters,
And the storm was o’er the deep
’Tis a fearful thing in winter
To be shatter’d by the blast,
And to hear the trumpet thunder,
“Cut away the mast!”
We shudder’d there in silence,
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talk’d with death;
Sad thus we sat in silence,
All busy with our prayers,
“We’re lost!” the captain shouted,
As he stagger’d down the stairs.
But his little daughter whisper’d.
As she took the icy hand,
“Is not God upon the waters,
Just the same as on the land?”
Then we kiss’d the little maiden,
And we spake of better cheer,
As we anchor’d safe in harbor,
Where the sun was shining clear.
Chorus.—And a shout rose loud and joyous,
As we grasp’d the friendly hand,
God is on the waters,
Just the same as on the land.