Thomas Hampson

While hollow burst the rushing winds,
And heavy beats the show’r,
This anxious, aching bosom finds
No comfort in its pow’r.
No, no.

For ah, my love, it little knows
What thy hard fate may be,
What bitter storm of fortune blows,
What tempests trouble thee.

A wayward fate hath spun the thread
On which our days depend,
And darkling in the checker’d shade,
She draws it to an end.

But whatsoe’er may be our doom,
The lot is cast for me,
For in the world or in the tomb,
My heart is fix’d on thee.

High on the giddy bending mast
The seaman furls the rending sail,
And, fearless of the rushing blast,
He careless whistles to the gale.

Rattling ropes and rolling seas,
Hurlyburly, hurlyburly,
War nor death can him displease.

The hostile foe his vessel seeks,
High bounding o’er the raging main,
The roaring cannon loudly speaks,
‘Tis Britain’s glory we maintain.

Rattling ropes and rolling seas,
Hurlyburly, hurlyburly,
War nor death can him displease.

She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm in the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek…;
She sat, like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.