Without, no sound but the low dash
Of tidal wave, the cry or plash
Of the wild sea-bird, glancing bright
As starry meteor in its flight.
No children on that strand are seen
Grouped merrily in noisy play,
No muser marks with thoughtful mien
The dying splendors of the day,
No stranger-eyes with wonder view
A scene so lonely and so new.
But on yon knoll an old man stands
With furrowed cheeks and toil-worn hands ;
His long, loose hair is bleached as hoar
As the bright foam that wreathes the shore ;
His form, erect in youthful prime.
Bends 'neath the gathered griefe of time ;
Yet on that calm, sad brow is laid
Of wrong, revenge, remorse, no shade ;
Though deeply traced are sorrow's lines,