CRUCÈ AND CORONA.
'Tis night upon the sea; the heav'ns are black;And storms and whirlwinds sweep the foaming deep;And ever and anon, electric lightTerrific splendor flashes on the scene,Revealing by its bright and fearful gleamA noble vessel wrestling with the storm.And wilder round it do the whirlwinds sweep,And higher round it do the billows roll,Until at last the tempests dash the shipTheir yielding prey upon the wreck-strewn reef. Then 'midst the din of elements ariseThe cries of human anguish, while despairLike clouds of darkness gathers round each soul,And hope its starlight quenches in the gloom. Each pow'r that sways the empire of the soulGrows still with terror,—all save Memory,Who to and fro, on time's fast-dark'ning shores,Walks solitary by the sea of death.
Amid this band of hope-bereaven onesA mother clasps in agony her child;
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