Who nightly with the billows strove,
And through the wild seas cleaved his way
To the dear bosom of his love,
Ne’er bore a braver soul than thine,
When yawned great deeps and tempests frowned,
Nor lifted up amid the waves
A brow with loftier beauty crowned.
The poet’s rare and wondrous gifts
In thee await their triumph-hour—
There sleep within thy dreamy eyes