For one last stroke, one struggle more with death
As sometimes, when the tempest wildest raves,
Comes a short lull along the flashing waves,
So seemed that pause in havoc’s mad career,
So deep you almost might their breathing hear.
Then, too, oh contrast strange! who looked might see
The moonlight sleeping on the hill’s green lea,
The trees where ’mid the boughs the wild bird swings,
And rocked in slumber folds her wearied wings,
The jeweled grass, the flower whose sun-parched lip