Deceitful waves, that now in the abyss
Have whelmed my love’s proud form,
Play of the pitiless storm.
“I’ve wept until my tears
Have worn with furrows deep my pallid cheek;
Have gazed until my poor eyes, worn and weak,
Like age’s eyes, seem faded with long years.
Oh! the long, dreary nights I’ve passed alone!
Would Reason from her throne
Might flee, and bear with her this dim, dull grief—