(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Maid of the briny wave and raven lock,
Whose bed's the sea-weed, and whose throne's the rock,
Tell me, what fate compels thee thus to ride
O'er the tempestuous ocean's foaming tide?

Art thou some naiad, who, at Neptune's nod,
Flies to obey the mandate of that god?
Art thou the syren, who, when night draws on,
Chauntest thy farewell to the setting sun?

Or, leaning on thy wave-encircled rock,
Twining with lily hand thy raven lock;
Dost thou, in accents wild, proclaim the storm,
Which soon shall wrap th' unwary sailor's form?

Or dost thou round the wild Charybdis play,
To warn the seaman from his dangerous way?
Or, shrieking midst the tempest, chaunt the dirge
Of shipwrecked sailors, buried in the surge?

Tell me, mysterious being, what you are?
So wild, so strange, so lonely, yet so fair!
Tell me, O tell me, why you sit alone,
Singing so sweetly on the wave-washed stone?

And tell me, that if e'er I find my grave,
Beneath the ocean's wildly troubled wave,
That thou with weeds wilt strew my watery bed,
And hush the roaring billows o'er my head.