No rising sun but finds him there,
Nor misses him the evening star,
And the pale moon doth nightly shed
Her cold light on his frosted head.
First when the pall of darkest night
Hath fallen, the old man leaves the height.
What doth he there ? Hath fancy wrought
Within his brain some strange misthought ?
Is it some vision that he sees,
A phantom-child of mist and breeze ?
Ah, no ! he waiteth for his boy.
The island's pride, his heart's last joy !
Young Melleff was as brave as good,
A bolder lad ne'er stemmed the flood.
None ventured with a foot so free
To dare the treacherous tide as he.
When winds and waves the islet shook,
His arm secured the trembling flock.
Nor less his manly heart was shown