The African

Wide over the tremulous sea The moon spread her mantle of light, And the gale gently dying away, Breath'd soft on the bosom of night: On the forecastle Maraton stood, And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale; His tears fell unseen in the flood, His sighs pass's unheard in the gale.

Ah, wretch! in his anguish, he cry'd, From country and liberty torn; Ah! Maraton, would thou hadst died, Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne. Flow ye tears, down my cheek ever flow, Soft sleep from mine eye-lids depart, And still let the arrow of woe Drink deep of the stream of my heart.

But hark!—on the silence of night, My Adela's accents I hear! And mournful, beneath the wan light, I see her lov'd image appear; Oh Maraton!—haste thee, she cries, Where the reign of oppression is o'er; The tyrant is robb'd of his prize, And Adela sorrows no more.