THE MAELSTROM.

AT every wave the tiller to and fro

Sways gently, while the wind with rapid glide,

Like a coy maid, escapes the sails that woo

Each fleeting breeze with arms extended wide.

With cheek turned to the sun, and half-closed eyes,

The youth is dreaming of some ancient strain

That rhymes the tale of hosts that in the skies

Renewed the fight erst waged on earthly plain.

The battle's din he seems to hear, he wakes,-

It is the whirlpool's roar that strikes his ear;

And on his pallid cheek and brow fall flakes

Of foam that mark the shallop's mad career.

At turn of tide the eddies upward whirl

A lifeless form, and cast it on the sand,

Where hideous waves creep up and round it curl,

And lick with slimy touch its soft white hand.