Poems (Procter)/The Storm

by Adelaide Anne Procter

For works with similar titles, see The Storm.

THE STORM.

HE tempest rages wild and high,The waves lift up their voice and cryFierce answers to the angry sky,—           Miserere Domine.

Through the black night and driving rain,A ship is struggling, all in vain,To live upon the stormy main;—           Miserere Domine.

The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,Vain is it now to strive or dare;A cry goes up of great despair,—           Miserere Domine.

The stormy voices of the main,The moaning wind and pelting rainBeat on the nursery window-pane:—           Miserere Domine,

Warm curtained was the little bed,Soft pillowed was the little head;"The storm will wake the child," they said:—           Miserere Domine.

Cowering among his pillows whiteHe prays, his blue eyes dim with fright,"Father, save those at sea to-night!"—           MMiserere Domine.

The morning shone all clear and gay,On a ship at anchor in the bay,And on a little child at play,—           Gloria tibi Domine!