The lightning came, with the whirlwind blast,
And cleaved the prow, and smote down the mast.
First Fisherman.
“O lady, lady, weep not nor wail,
Though the sea runs howe as Dalswinton vale,
Then flashes high as Barnhourie brave,
And yawns for thee, like the yearning grave—
Tho’ twixt thee and the ravening flood
There is but my arm and this splintering wood,
The fell quicksand, or the famished brine,