What wind shall point the way
To the chambers where thou rt lying?
—Come to me thence, and say
If thou thought'st on me in dying?
Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou 'rt surely of them—speak!"
She listen'd—'twas the wind's low moan,
'Twas the ripple of the wave;
'Twas the wakening osprey's cry alone,
As it started from its cave.
"I know each fearful spell
Of the ancient Runic lay,
Whose mutter'd words compel
The tempests to obey!
But I adjure not thee
By magic, sign, or song,
My voice shall stir the sea
By love—the deep, the strong!
Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou 'rt surely of them—rise!"
Again she gazed with an eager glance,
Wandering and wildly bright;
—She saw but the sparkling water's dance
In the arrowy northern light.
"By the slow and struggling death
Of Hope that loath'd to part,
By the fierce and withering breath
Of Despair on Youth's high heart,
By the weight of gloom which clings
To the mantle of the night,
By the heavy dawn which brings
Nought lovely to the sight,
Come to me from the ocean's dead!—awake, arise, appear!"
Was it her yearning spirit's dream,
Or did a pale form rise,
And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam,
With bright, still, mournful eyes?
"Have the depths heard?—they have!
My voice prevails—thou 'rt there!
Dim from thy watery grave,
Oh! thou that wert so fair!
Yet take me to thy rest!
There dwells no fear with love,
Let me slumber on thy breast,
While the billow rolls above!
We will sleep among the ocean's dead!—stay for me—stay! I come!"
There was a sullen plunge below,
A flashing on the main,
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's woe,
Shut—and grew still again!
