To S. T. P

Shadows and clouds are o'er me;
Thou art not here, my bride!
The billows dash before me
Which bear me from thy side;
On lowering waves benighted,
Dim sets the weary day;
Thou art not here, my plighted,
To smile the storm away.
When nymphs of ocean slumber,
I strike the measured stave
With wild and mournful number,
To charm the wandering wave.
Hark to the words of sorrow
Along the fading main!
"'Tis night — but will the morrow
Restore that smile again?"
Mid curtain'd dreams descending,
Thy gentle form I trace;
Dimly with shadows blending,
I gaze upon thy face;
Thy voice comes o'er me gladly,
Thy hand is on my brow;
I wake — the wave rolls madly
Beneath the ploughing prow!
Speed on, thou surging billow!
O'er ocean speed away!
And bear unto her pillow
The burden of my lay:
Invest her visions brightly
With passion's murmur'd word,
And bid her bless him nightly —
Him of the lute and sword.
And her, of dreams unclouded,
With tongue of lisping tale,
Whose eye I left soft shrouded
'Neath slumber's misty veil, —
When morn at length discloses
The smile I may not see,
Bear to her cheek of roses
A father's kiss for me.