How long will ye round me be swelling, O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea? Not always in caves was my dwelling, Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. Through the high-sounding halls of Cathloma In the steps of my beauty I strayed; The warriors beheld Ninathoma, And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid! A Ghost! by my cavern it darted! In moon-beams the Spirit was drest -- For lovely appear the departed When they visit the dreams of my rest! But disturbed by the tempest's commotion Fleet the shadowy forms of delight -- Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean! To howl through my cavern by night. |