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Where round each coast, with hollow roar, The rude winds keep their viewless court;Where ceaseless billows dash the shore, And spirits of the storm resort;
On wild North-Mavin's rocky beach, Poor Eric's lowly cottage stood,And brav'd alike the fearful reach Of howling winds and foaming flood.
His Tamir, partner of his joys, Of all his grief, and all his care—His elder hopes, two hardy boys— The infants prattling round his chair—
These sooth'd his labours, cheer'd his heart; These bound him to his humble cot;The noblest feelings, void of art, Endear'd to him the lonely spot.
Long with misfortune's gloomy train, And want and poverty he strove;Yet shrunk not back from toil nor pain, Bless'd with these objects of his love.
Oft in his little fragile bark For them he roam'd the billowy tide,And many a night, forlorn and dark, Upon the stormy wave would ride.
And soon his boys increas'd his store, For all his dangers now they shar'd;
