Wild-frouded clouds fly 'neath a frowning heaven,
By roaring tempest toss'd and swiftly riven:
The lightning plays in awful blinding flashes:
Then quickly follow pealing thunder crashes.
The sea is roaring as 'twould roar its last,
And flying foam, in sheets, are upward cast.
Now heeling o'er till on beam ends we lay,
And yards are dipping in the angry fray:
The deaf'ning tumult roaring in the ear,
We cannot act, we cannot see or hear.
The sails are rent and up and down the stays,
The sparks are flying in a wildering blaze.
Now out to windward, on the weather side,
We dearly cling to life and there abide,
Expecting every moment in the gloom
To see our good ship plunging to her doom.
As helpless we await the final plunge!
Our fate seems balanced on a fragile hinge.
Our chance seems hopeless, yet suspense is keen,
Amid the tumult and the deaf'ning din.
The squall at last is o'er, its fury spent.
But leaves us wrecked, with sails and cordage rent-
But worse than that: five seamen and a boy-
The latter , too, his mother's hope and joy-
Are lost forever ere the dawn of day
Amid the fury and the blinding spray.