Classic Poem

This tempest sweeps the Atlantic!—Nevasink
Is howling to the Capes! Grim Hatteras cries
Like thousand damned ghosts, that on the brink
Lift their dark hands and threat the threatening skies;
Surging through foam and tempest, old Roman
Hangs o'er the gulf, and, with his cavernous throat,
Pours out the torrent of his wolfish note,
And bids the billows bear it where they can!
Deep calleth unto deep, and, from the cloud,
Launches the bolt, that, bursting o'er the sea,
Rends for a moment the thick pitchy shroud,
And shows the ship the shore beneath her lea:—
Start not, dear wife, no dangers here betide,—
And see, the boy still sleeping at your side!