But there's a blank repose in this,
A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,
Now felt thro' all thy breast and brain;--
That spasm of terror, mute, intense,
That breathless, agonized suspense
From whose hot throb whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking!
Calm is the wave--heaven's brilliant lights
Reflected dance beneath the prow;--
Time was when on such lovely nights
She who is there so desolate now
Could sit all cheerful tho' alone
And ask no happier joy than seeing
That starlight o'er the waters thrown--
No joy but that to make her blest,
And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being
Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast,--
Itself a star not borrowing light
But in its own glad essence bright.
How different now!--but, hark! again
The yell of havoc rings--brave men!
In vain with beating hearts ye stand
On the bark's edge--in vain each hand
Half draws the falchion from its sheath;
All's o'er--in rust your blades may lie:--
He at whose word they've scattered death
Even now this night himself must die!
Well may ye look to yon dim tower,
And ask and wondering guess what means
The battle-cry at this dead hour--
Ah! she could tell you--she who leans
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,
With brow against the dew-cold mast;--
Too well she knows--her more than life,
Her soul's first idol and its last
Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.
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