Poems (Bass)/The Storm

For works with similar titles, see Storm.
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THE STORM.
Off fair Nahant the gulls are sweeping low, And waves beat wild against the rugged wall By yonder point. Afar, twin schooners crawlClose reefed; they well may shun the ruddy glowThat climbs the West, but boldly face the foe. From boat to boat resounds a warning call As shore and ocean shiver 'neath a pallFlame lit. When, tempest-tortured, to and froWe flee before the gale, while lances flash From passion-freighted clouds; to hope we cling,Though thought runs riot. Storm battalions clash! Can sail survive? Ay, scorn the cruel sting!One effort more, just one more fearless dash— And white-browed breakers with rejoicings ring.
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