She knelt upon the rock; her graceful arms
Were rais'd to heaven, in attitude of prayer:
You might have gaz'd on those half-opened lips,
And deem'd you listen'd to their silvery tones.
Sweet tears were trembling in her fair blue eyes,
Like drops that linger on the violet—
The glistening relics of a summer shower:
They were the tears of pious gratitude;
And hope, like sunshine, brighten'd thro' their dew.
She look'd all stainless purity; her glance
Spoke of unearthly things, and of a soul
Already mingled with its native skies:
She knelt on the cold rock, while the rude waves
Dash'd o'er her slender form their foam; around
Was a drear solitude, where the dark cliffs
Frown'd o'er the sea; and the black shadowy clouds,
Gathering their sullen masses, seem'd to be
The tempests' dwelling place. Yet that young saint
Pray'd fearlessly; she felt, the guardian hand,
So late stretch'd forth to save in peril's hour,
Would not desert her now.