Dies in the ocean vales where echo sleeps;
While waves that roll’d in music on the shore,
Lashed into angry surges, foam and break
In notes of terror on the rocky lee.
’Tis gone, and on its bosom dark and wild
The bow of God is hung, in colors bright
And beautiful as morning’s blushing tints,
When the ark rested on the mountain top,
And the small remnant of a deluged world,
Looked out upon the wilderness, and wept.