Joyfully expects the light,
That the vessel surely showeth.
Fond old man, alas for thee !
Other sight thine eyes awaiteth
When the troops of darkness flee,
And the angry flood abateth !
Now spent ocean seeks his bed ;
Morning in the orient lightens,
Robes the flying clouds with red,
And the weeping islet brightens.
Watcher, turn thee toward thy cot !
Lo, the angel that destroyeth,
Save thy life, hath left thee naught,
All in hopeless ruin lieth.
On the turfless, crumbling mound
Scarce an upright pile remaineth,
While the shapeless wreck around
Even the hungry sea disdaineth.
There the pitying neighbors throng,