Classic Poem

( " Quels sont ces bruits sourds? " )

Hark, what sombre tones!
From far billows dying,
Listen, hollow sighing,
Blent with heavy moans,
Blent with eerie crying, —
Till a shriller wail
Bodes new agony ... —
Through his horn the gale
Thunders o'er the sea!

Rain in torrents, hark!
On the low shore yonder,
Billows die in thunder,
'Neath a heaven all-dark;
While with dread we wonder
Winter should prevail,
Ere his time to be ... —
Through his horn the gale,
Thunders o'er the sea!

Oh! lost mariners!
While the ship doth founder,
Through the darkness round her
Toward the shore one nears
(Ay, the low shore yonder!)
Brawny arms, — how frail! —
Stretched out helplessly! ... —
Through his horn the gale
Thunders o'er the sea!

Oh! rash mariners!
While the ship's on-driven,
Sail on sail shrieks, riven
As with tooth or shears.
Not a star in heaven!
Strife's of none avail!
Deadly rocks to lee ... —
Through his horn the gale
Thunders o'er the sea!

Lo! what sudden light?
'Tis the star beholden,
Brighter than all golden
Stars that gem the night:
Torch God fires to embolden
Mariners who hail
It, while threateningly
Through his horn the gale
Thunders o'er the sea!