V.

While he the dang’rous ocean braves,
  My tears but vainly flow: 
Is pity in the faithless waves
  To which I pour my woe?

VI.

The night is dark, the waters deep,
  Yet soft the billows roll;
Alas! at every breeze I weep—­
  The storm is in my soul.

An
Ode
on the
peace.

I.

  As wand’ring late on Albion’s shore
    That chains the rude tempestuous deep,
  I heard the hollow surges roar
    And vainly beat her guardian steep;
I heard the rising sounds of woe
  Loud on the storm’s wild pinion flow;
And still they vibrate on the mournful lyre,
That tunes to grief its sympathetic wire.

II.

  From shores the wide Atlantic laves,
    The spirit of the ocean bears
  In moans, along his western waves,
    Afflicted nature’s hopeless cares: 
  Enchanting scenes of young delight,
  How chang’d since first ye rose to sight;
Since first ye rose in infant glories drest
Fresh from the wave, and rear’d your ample breast.

III.

  Her crested serpents, discord throws
    O’er scenes which love with roses grac’d;
  The flow’ry chain his hands compose,
    She wildly scatters o’er the waste: 
  Her glance his playful smile deforms,
  Her frantic voice awakes the storms,
From land to land, her torches spread their fires,
While love’s pure flame in streams of blood expires.

IV.

  Now burns the savage soul of war,
    While terror flashes from his eyes,
  Lo! waving o’er his fiery car
    Aloft his bloody banner flies: 
The battle wakes—­with awful sound
  He thunders o’er the echoing ground,
He grasps his reeking blade, while streams of blood
Tinge the vast plain, and swell the purple flood.

V.

  But softer sounds of sorrow flow;
    On drooping wing the murm’ring gales
  Have borne the deep complaints of woe
    That rose along the lonely vales—­
  Those breezes waft the orphan’s cries,
  They tremble to parental sighs,
And drink a tear for keener anguish shed,
The tear of faithful love when hope is fled.

VI.

  The object of her anxious fear
    Lies pale on earth, expiring, cold,
  Ere, wing’d by happy love, one year
    Too rapid in its course, has roll’d;
  In vain the dying hand she grasps,
  Hangs on the quiv’ring lip, and clasps
The fainting form, that slowly sinks in death,
To catch the parting glance, the fleeting breath.