MAY ALLONBY.
49
And the purple shades of the dying Day
Are teeming everywhere,
While the drowsy beetles chant their lay
In the wild field-lily's cells,
And the solemn voice of the homeless wind
Along the highland swells,
I know, by the cry of my soul within,
There's a place where they shut the gates on sin,
And the God of glory dwells!
Are teeming everywhere,
While the drowsy beetles chant their lay
In the wild field-lily's cells,
And the solemn voice of the homeless wind
Along the highland swells,
I know, by the cry of my soul within,
There's a place where they shut the gates on sin,
And the God of glory dwells!
MAY ALLONBY.
Night has come down o'er the lone sea,
The wild wind has risen to frenzy,—
The spirits of Dread walk the shore,—
Across the long stretch of the quicksands,
And over the bleak, gloomy headlands,
Is heard the billows' grim roar.
The wild wind has risen to frenzy,—
The spirits of Dread walk the shore,—
Across the long stretch of the quicksands,
And over the bleak, gloomy headlands,
Is heard the billows' grim roar.
Oh, angry and treacherous ocean!
Oh, "white-caps" in fiendish commotion!
Be kind to the ships in your care!
Be merciful to the bold rangers,
Who've dared all your perils and dangers,
Whose brave hearts never despair!
Oh, "white-caps" in fiendish commotion!
Be kind to the ships in your care!
Be merciful to the bold rangers,
Who've dared all your perils and dangers,
Whose brave hearts never despair!
The fisherman's cot on the Boar's Head
Is light with the pitch-torch's blaze red,
And it streams far over the lee.
Is light with the pitch-torch's blaze red,
And it streams far over the lee.
