THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
313 
He bent o'er the trembler, and sheltered her form 
From the plash of the sea and the sweep of the 
storm ; 
But woe to the lover, and woe to the maid, 
Whose hopes on the treacherous sea are laid ; 
For he is a king whose palaces shine 
In lustre and light down the pearly brine ; 
And he loves to gather in glory there 
The choicest things of the earth and air ; 
In his deep saloons, with coral crown'd. 
Where gems are sparkling above and around, 
He gathers his harem of love and grace, 
And beauty he takes to his cold embrace ; 
The wind and the waves are his messengers true, 
And lost is the wanderer whom they pursue ; 
They sweep the shore, they plunder the wreck. 
His stores to heap, and his halls to deck. 
Ah, lady and lover, ye are doom'd their prey ;-— 
They come ! they come ! — ye are swept away ; 
Ye sink in the tide, — but it cannot sever 
The fond ones, who sleep in its depths for ever ! 
Oh ! wild was the storm, and loud was its roar, 
And strange were the sights that I hover*d o'er : 
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