Page:Elegiac Sonnets 2.pdf/62

Rh

On these lone tombs, by storms up-torn, The hopeless wretch may lingering mourn, Till from the ocean, rising red, The misty Moon with lurid ray Lights her, reluctant, on her way, To steep in tears her solitary bed.

Hence the dire Spirit oft surveys The ship, that to the western bays With favouring gales pursues its course; Then calls the vapour dark that blinds The pilot—calls the felon winds That heave the billows with resistless force.