312 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
I tell of the ship that hath found a grave : — 
Her spars still float on the restless wave ; 
But down in the halls of the sullen deep 
The forms of the brave and the beautiful sleep. 
I saw the storm as it gathered fast ; 
I heard the roar of the coming blast ; 
I marked the ship in her fearful strife, 
As she flew on the tide, like a thing of life, 
But the whirlwind came, — and her masts were wrung 
Away, and away on the waters flung ; 
I sat on the gale o'er the sea-swept deck. 
And screamed in delight o'er the coming wreck. — 
I flew to the reef with a heart of glee. 
And wiled the ship to her destiny ; 
On the hidden rocks, like a hawk she rushed. 
And the sea through her riven timbers gushed ; — 
On the whirling surge the wreck was flung. 
And loud on the gale wild voices rung ; 
I gazed on the scene, I saw despair 
On the pallid brows of a youthful pair ; 
The maiden drooped like a gentle flower 
That is torn away from its native bower ; 
Her arms round her lover she wildly twined. 
And gazed on the sea with a wildered mind ; 
