SHIPWRECK.

'Tis solemn midnight! On this lonely steep,
Beneath this watch-tow'r's desolated wall,
Where mystic shapes the wanderer appal,
I rest; and view below the desert deep.
As through tempestuous clouds the moon's cold light
Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night
With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,
And sullen roar the surges far below.
In the still pauses of the gust I hear
The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,
And oft among the clouds their forms appear.
But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale
And in the distant ray what glimmering sail
Bends to the storm? — Now sinks the note of fear!
Ah! wretched mariners! no more shall day
Unclose his cheering eye to light you on your way!