Translated by Charles Timothy Brooks
WHEN the worthy Widow Tibbets
(Whom the cut below exhibits)
Had recovered, on the morrow,
From the dreadful shock of sorrow,
She (as soon as grief would let her
Think) began to think ’t were better
Just to take the dead, the dear ones
(Who in life were walking here once),
And in a still...
“ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand!
Tell me, what is that far away,—
There, where over the isle of sand
Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray?
See! it rocks with a ghastly life,
Rising and rolling through clouds of spray,
Right in the midst of the breakers’ strife,—
Tell me what is it, Fisherman, pray?”
“That, good sir...
