Classic Poem

When night's dark mantle veil'd the seas,
And Nature's self was hush'd to sleep;
When gently blew the midnight breeze,
Louisa fought the boundless deep.

On a lone beach, in wild despair,
She sat recluse from soft repose;
Her bitter wailings rent the air,
And sad were fair Louisa's woes.

Three years she nurs'd the pleasing thought,
Her love — her Henry — would return;
When, ah! the fatal news was brought,
The sea was made his wat'ry urn.

(Sweet maids, who know the pow'r of love,
You best can tell what she must feel,
Who 'gainst each adverse fortune strove
The tender passion to conceal.)

Bewilder'd, lost, absorb'd in grief,
While madness ran thro' ev'ry vein;
The mourner sought from death relief,
And frantic plung'd into the main.

The Heav'ns with pity saw her end,
The frantic deed of hopeless love,
And bade their angel guard descend,
And bear Louisa's soul above.

There plac'd in happier scenes on high,
Louisa smiles at ev'ry care;
Hush'd into joy is ev'ry sigh,
For Henry's angel form is there!