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212

WOLFE OF THE KNOLL.

And to-night, though winds are high,
Friends in vain to rest entreat him ;
"Sure," he saith, "my son is nigh,
And I must be here to greet him !"

Hark ! the tide's advancing roar ;
Shepherds, brief will be your sleeping !
Wave rolls wave against the shore,
Each in scorn the last o'erleaping.
Now the trembling mounds they smite,
Close around their bases curling ;
O'er the roofs with doubling might
Briny flakes they now are hurling !
Cynthia, through the wind-rent cloud
O'er her rising glory drifted,
Sees above the foamy shroud
Cot and down alone uplifted.
How the cabins heave and rock
On the feathery crested surges,
While each quick returning shock