html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }COME, ye winds, and chant sad dirges,
Where the restless billows roam,
And the sand-banks kiss the verges
Of the ever-shifting foam.
Sweep along the Ocean slowly,
For a Bard is resting near,
And his harp is lying lowly
In the shadow of his bier.
Sobbing through the ti-tree bushes,
Low and tender, loud and wild.
Melancholy music gushes—
Pensive Nature mourns her child.
He her secrets could unravel,
He had read her mystic page;
Oft with her his soul would travel,
Bursting from its earthly cage.
He rode on the tempest’s pinions,
When the sheets of molten gold
Flashed across her broad dominions,
And the drums of heaven rolled.
He smiled with her in her gladness,
He wept with her in her gloom—
Until Sorrow, linked with Madness,
Tore the curtain off the tomb.
Censure not the frenzied action,
He but plunged where all must halt;
Goaded on by fierce distraction—
His the secret, his the fault.
Rest him where the ocean plashes
To the moaning of the wind;
Death but robbed us of his ashes—
He has left his thoughts behind.