When on the billow cast, the Shipwreck'd mariner
He scorns the rude surge—he fights the raging wave;
But strength still failing him, no help nor succour near
He sinks, still struggling, to a watery grave.

The mighty hand of Death soon seizing him,
Cold, dark despair fast freezing him.
Conquered—for life he scarcely breathes a sigh,
Resigned to fate—resigned to die.

High on the fearful whirlwind wheeling,
Round, round his head, like the wild eagle, sailing ;
Pleased with his woe, some demon of the storm,
Before his closing eye, presents herform !

Who morn and even takes her stand,
On the highest cliff of his native land ;
And o'er the ocean's misty brim,
Looks out afar—afar—for him
And breathes a sigh.

His soul returns—his bosom burns
Again he beats his billowy bed,
He strives—he struggles—lifts his head,
He can't consent to die.

Hark, tis a shout that rends the air !
The foam is cleft—a sail is near,
The life boat trim comes booming by,
The brave had sworn he should not die.
The rescued victim of the storm
Beholds indeed—indeed! her form—

Who morn and even took her stand
On the highest cliff of his native land ;
And o'er the ocean's mighty brim,
Look'd out afar—afar—for him.
And on his long left native shore
Behold they meet to part no more ?
They meet—they meet!
To part no more.