I.

The stormy South howls thro' the sullen cloud, Contending billows roar aloud! The Merchant sees the gathering danger rise, And sends a thousand yearning sighs To his dear shelter'd home.-- Its shades receive him;--but the tides Grow smooth;--the wild winds cease to roam; And see!--his new-trimm'd vessel gaily rides!-- Fir'd with the hope of wealth, once more He quits, so hardly gain'd, the shore; Watches, with eager eye, th' unfurling sail, Nor casts one look behind to the safe, sylvan vale.