Eliza Allen Starr (1824–1901)

BIRD of the sea! where mighty frigates drown

Nor leave a ripple, are thy pastimes made.

Grave sports in vast aerial circles played

From wave to cloud, from cloud to wave. No frown

On sea or sky appalls thee; and the down

On thy white breast shows glistering, in the shade

Of gathering tempests. There, with motion staid,

I see thee, where the mid-sea surges crown

The rocking billows of the awful deep,

Cradled as peacefully as if asleep.

Which, seeing, though with cheek, blanched, cold with fear,

Sudden within me Hope’s chilled pulses leap,

Since He who fashioned thee with purpose clear,

Our drifting ship, storm-tossed, can safe to harbor steer.