Page:Elegiac Sonnets 1.pdf/89

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Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and streaming hair,
    While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech,
A wretched maid—the victim of Despair,
    Survey'd the threatening storm and desart beech:

Then to the tomb where now the father slept
    Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow,
Frantic she turn'd—and beat her breast and wept,
    Invoking vengeance on the dust below.

'Lo! rising there above each humbler heap,
    'Yon cipher'd stones his name and wealth relate,
'Who gave his son—remorseless—to the deep,
    'While I, his living victim, curse my fate.

'Oh, my lost love! no tomb is placed for thee,
    'That may to strangers eyes thy worth impart!
'Thou hast no grave but in the stormy sea!
    'And no memorial but this breaking heart!