THE STORMY PETEREL. 
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 couldst tell me half 
Of the misery thou dost know! 
