113
XVIII.
"Why, cruel white-man! when away
"My sable Love was torn,
"Why did you let poor Zelma stay,
On Afric's sands to mourn?
"No! Zelma is not left, for she will prove
"In the deep troubled main, her fond—her faithful Love."
XIX.
The lab'ring Ship was now a wreck,
The shrouds were flutt'ring wide!
The rudder gone, the lofty deck
Was rock'd from side to side—
Poor Zelma's eyes now dropp'd their last big tear,
While, from her tawny cheek, the blood recoil'd with fear.
XX.
Now frantic, on the sands she roam'd,
Now shrieking stop'd to view
Where high the liquid mountains foam'd,
Around the exhausted crew—
'Till, from the deck, her Draco's well known form
Sprung mid the yawning waves, and buffetted the Storm.
