Lines Written In A Storm At Sea.

That sky of clouds is not the sky To light a lover to the pillow Of her he loves— The swell of yonder foaming billow Resembles not the happy sigh That rapture moves. Yet do I feel more tranquil far Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean, In this dark hour, Than when, in passion's young emotion, I've stolen, beneath the evening star, To Julia's bower. Oh! there's a holy calm profound In awe like this, that ne'er was given To pleasure's thrill; 'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, And the soul, listening to the sound, Lies mute and still. 'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow In the cold deep, Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow No more shall wake the heart or eye, But all must sleep. Well!—there are some, thou stormy bed, To whom thy sleep would be a treasure; Oh! most to him, Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure, Nor left one honey drop to shed Round sorrow's brim. Yes—he can smile serene at death: Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping Of friends who love him; Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath No more shall move him.