Loud thunders rattle on the ear;
Saint Elmo’s fire her yard-arms grace,
The boldest bosom sinks in fear,
While death stands watching face to face.
Months roll, and anxious friends await
Some tidings of the home-bound bark,
But ah! above her hapless fate
Mysterious shadows slumber dark.
No tidings come from Albion’s shore
To wild New England’s rocky lee;