THE STORM.
Off fair Nahant the gulls are sweeping low,
And waves beat wild against the rugged wall
By yonder point. Afar, twin schooners crawl
Close reefed; they well may shun the ruddy glow
That climbs the West, but boldly face the foe.
From boat to boat resounds a warning call
As shore and ocean shiver 'neath a pall
Flame lit. When, tempest-tortured, to and fro
We flee before the gale, while lances flash
From passion-freighted clouds; to hope we cling,
Though thought runs riot. Storm battalions clash!
Can sail survive? Ay, scorn the cruel sting!
One effort more, just one more fearless dash—
And white-browed breakers with rejoicings ring.