Come thou in robe of darkest blue
And face of pale and sickly hue
Who Moon-like guid’st the liquid swell
Of sounds that float upon the shell
At whose soft touch whate’er is mute
Talks with a voice like Pity’s Lute
—Like what the Sailor’s widow hears
At night dull-tingling in her ears
While touched by the moon-rais’d Surge
The wild rocks round her sing a wondrous Dirge.
