The Wrecked Mariner

Stay, proud bird of the shore!
Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff,
Where waits our shatter'd skiff--
One that shall mark nor it nor lover more.

Fan with thy plumage bright
Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine;
And, gently to divine
The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light.

Again swoop out to sea,
With lone and lingering wail--then lay thy head,
As thou thyself wert dead,
Upon her breast, that she may weep for me.

Now let her bid false Hope
For ever hide her beam, nor trust again
The peace-bereaving strain--
Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop.

Oh! bid not her repine,
And deem my loss too bitter to be borne,
Yet all of passion scorn
But the mild, deep'ning memory of mine.

Thou art away, sweet wind!
Bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing,
And o'er her bosom fling
The love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find!