Poems (Bass)/The Storm
For works with similar titles, see The Storm.
THE STORM.
Off fair Nahant the gulls are sweeping low, And waves beat wild against the rugged wall By yonder point. Afar, twin schooners crawlClose reefed; they well may shun the ruddy glowThat climbs the West, but boldly face the foe. From boat to boat resounds a warning call As shore and ocean shiver 'neath a pallFlame lit. When, tempest-tortured, to and froWe flee before the gale, while lances flash From passion-freighted clouds; to hope we cling,Though thought runs riot. Storm battalions clash! Can sail survive? Ay, scorn the cruel sting!One effort more, just one more fearless dash— And white-browed breakers with rejoicings ring.