The morn was dark, the wind was high

With many a gusty swell;

And from the moonless, starless sky

The rain in torrents fell:

An hour it was when sleep seem’d dear,

And wakefulness allied to fear.

’Tis pleasant, on a summer night,

From tranquil rest to wake,

And see the moonbeams’ silvery light

In gentle glory break

Through opening clouds or leafy trees,

Whose whispers own the passing breeze.

And ‘tis delightful, just as day

Illumes the eastern skies,

To hear the first bird's matin lay,

Or cock's shrill clarion rise;

To list, with unclos’d lids, and then

Gently to sink in sleep again.

But, on a stormy winter morn,

When all is dark and drear;

When every sound, too, seems forlorn

Which breaks upon the ear,—

If sleep be from the pillow gone,

The restless hours creep slowly on.

Such lot was mine not long ago;

When to my ear was brought

A plaintive outcry, faint and low,

At first as faintly caught;

But soon the doleful whine of “Sweep! ”

Betray’d its source, and “murder’d sleep.”

For who could sleep, while such a strain,

By childish accents pour’d,

Brought all its wretchedness and pain

To be by thought explor’d,

And Fancy felt compell’d to range

Through sufferings varied, new, and strange?

The sea-boy, in the fearful din

Of wild waves crested white,

Constrain’d the top-mast's height to win

In some tempestuous night,—

His giddy, awful task may scan

With feelings worthy of a Man.

The winds may rock him to and fro,

The thunder loudly rave,

The lightnings flash, the waves below

May yawn,—an opening grave;

Yet with him to his post may climb

The germs of sentiments sublime;—

Of danger brav’d, of honour won

By confidence and skill;

Memories of feats by others done;

Proud hopes he may fulfil;

And cheering thoughts within may glow

Of messmates’ watchful eyes below.

But thou, poor abject child! whose cry

Still haunts my memory's ear,

What can thy weary lot supply

The aching heart to cheer?