Elegy. 'DARK gath'ring clouds involve the threat'ning skies, ' The sea heaves conscious of th'impending gloom, 'Deep, hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise; ' They come — the Spirits of the Tempest come! 'Oh! may such terrors mark th' approaching night ' As reign'd on that these streaming eyes deplore! 'Flash, ye red fires of Heav'n, with fatal light, ' And with conflicting winds, ye waters roar! 'Loud, and more loud, ye foaming billows burst! ' Ye warring elements more fiercely rave! 'Till the wide waves o'erwhelm the spot accurst, "Where ruthless Avarice finds a quiet grave!" Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks and streaming hair, While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech, A wretched maid — the victim of Despair, Survey'd the threat'ning storm and desert beech; Then to the tomb where now the father slept, Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow, Frantic she turn'd — and beat her breast and wept, Invoking vengeance on the dust below. 'Lo! rising there above each humbler heap, ' Yon cypher'd stones his name and wealth relate, 'Who gave his son — remorseless — to the deep, ' While I, his living victim, curse my fate. 'Oh! my lost love! no tomb is plac'd for thee, ' That may to strangers' eyes thy worth impart; ' Thou hast no grave, but in the stormy sea, 'And no memorial, but this breaking heart. 'Forth to the world, a widow'd wand'rer driv'n, ' I pour to winds and waves th' unheeded tear, 'Try with vain effort to submit to Heav'n, ' And fruitless call on him — "who cannot hear." 'Oh! might I fondly clasp him once again, ' While o'er my head th' infuriate billows pour, 'Forget in Death this agonizing pain, ' And feel his father's cruelty no more! 'Part, raging waters, part, and shew beneath, ' In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form; 'Now, while the demons of Despair and Death ' Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm! 'Lo! by the light'ning's momentary blaze, ' I see him rise the whitening waves above, 'No longer such as when in happier days ' He gave th' enchanted hours — to me and love. 'Such, as when daring the enchafed sea, ' And courting dang'rous toil, he often said, 'That every peril, one soft smile from me, ' One sigh of speechless tenderness, o'erpaid. 'But dead, disfigur'd, while between the roar ' Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear, 'And seem to say — Ah! wretch, delay no more, ' But come, unhappy mourner — meet me here. 'Yet, powerful Fancy, bid the phantom stay, ' Still let me hear him! — 'Tis already past; 'Along the waves his shadow glides away, ' I lose his voice amid the deaf'ning blast. 'Ah! wild Illusion, born of frantic Pain! ' He hears not, comes not from his wat'ry bed; 'My tears, my anguish, my despair are vain, ' Th' insatiate ocean gives not up its dead. ''Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll; ' Up heaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail; 'Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul, ' Despair, and Death, and Desolation — hail!' The ocean hears — th' embodied waters come — Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweep Tear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb, And bear the injured to eternal sleep!