Ere the joy of the tempest die.

The shade looming dark in the distance
Is naught but a galleon proud;
And the spray has long battered her turrets,
And loosened each yard and each shroud;

But not on the surf-beaten islands,
Nor yet upon Morven's land,
Does she drive, for her rudder, unshattered,
Is firm in the steersman's hand.

No mist wreath, no cloud, was the shadow
That moved on the height of the seas;
Like a castle how steep are her bulwarks,
Her spars like a forest of trees!

She is safe from the gales for a season,
In the shelter and calm of the sound;
A harbour named after the Virgin,
The "Well of Our Lady" she found.

She may rest in that haven, hill-girdled,
Near the shade of the woods on the shore,
Where the hush of the forest is deepened
By the waterfall's song evermore.

How grandly her masts rise to heaven,
How glitters the blest Mary's form,
High placed o'er the stern, and upholding