O, tell me, rolling, tossing billow,
Where thy place of rest may be!—
Who shall find, and who peruse them,
Were these lines consigned to thee!
Will the wild winds catch and carry,
’Mid the waves tumultuous roar,
Leaving them where golden glory
Flames along the sunset shore?
Pillowed on thy throbbing bosom
Where will this wee, waifling drift?
Will an eager hand stretch for it,
Thinking some strange tale to lift—
A record brief of direst peril
In a storm-wrecked sinking ship—
The moment when all hope had left them—
The tale ne’er told by human lip?
Or, will thy rolling, rocking cradle
Hold the casket unrevealed,
Till thy wrenching, prying fingers
Hath its secrets all unsealed?—
Dropping then the worthless trifle
Where wealth’s storm-wrecked treasures lie,
In thy mystic, wave-worn caverns,
Hidden aye, from mortal eye.