The Stormy Peterel

O stormy, stormy, Peterel, Come rest thee, bird, awhile; There is no storm, believe me, Anigh this summer isle.

Come, rest thy waving pinions; Alight thee down by me; And tell me somewhat of the lore Thou learnest on the sea!

Dost hear beneath the ocean The gathering tempest form? See’st thou afar the little cloud That grows into the storm?

How is it in the billowy depths— Doth sea-weed heave and swell? And is a sound of coming woe Rung from each caverned shell?

Dost watch the stormy sunset In tempests of the west; And see the old moon riding slow With the new moon on her breast?

Dost mark the billows heaving Before the coming gale; And scream for joy of every sound That turns the seaman pale?

Are gusty tempests mirth to thee? Lov’st thou the lightning’s flash; The booming of the mountain waves— The thunder’s deafening crash?

O stormy, stormy Peterel, Thou art a bird of woe! Yet would I thou could’st tell me half Of the misery thou dost know!

There was a ship went down last night,— A good ship and a fair; A costly freight within her lay, And many a soul was there!

The night-black storm was over her, And ’neath the caverned wave: In all her strength she perished, Nor skill of man could save.

The cry of her great agony Went upward to the sky; She perished in her strength and pride, Nor human aid was nigh.

But thou, O stormy Peterel, Went’st screaming o’er the foam;— Are there no tidings from that ship Which thou canst carry home?

Yes! He who raised the tempest up, Sustained each drooping one; And God was present in the storm, Though human aid was none!