Lines Written In A Storm At Sea.

That sky of clouds is not the sky     To light a lover to the pillow             Of her he loves--     The swell of yonder foaming billow     Resembles not the happy sigh             That rapture moves.     Yet do I feel more tranquil far     Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,             In this dark hour,     Than when, in passion's young emotion,     I've stolen, beneath the evening star,             To Julia's bower.     Oh! there's a holy calm profound     In awe like this, that ne'er was given             To pleasure's thrill;     'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,     And the soul, listening to the sound,             Lies mute and still.     'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,     Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow             In the cold deep,     Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow     No more shall wake the heart or eye,             But all must sleep.     Well!--there are some, thou stormy bed,     To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;             Oh! most to him,     Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure,     Nor left one honey drop to shed             Round sorrow's brim.     Yes--he can smile serene at death:     Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping             Of friends who love him;     Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping     Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath             No more shall move him.