 | American poems, selected and original |  |
239
Written at SEA, in a heavy GALE.
By Capt. Philip Freneau.
Happy the man who, safe on shore,
Now trims, at home, his evening fire;
Unmov'd he hears the tempest roar,
That on the tufted groves expire;
Alas! on us they doubly fall,
Our feeble bark must bear them all.
Now trims, at home, his evening fire;
Unmov'd he hears the tempest roar,
That on the tufted groves expire;
Alas! on us they doubly fall,
Our feeble bark must bear them all.
Now to their haunts the birds retreat,
The squirrel seeks his hollow tree,
Wolves in their shaded caverns meet,
All, all are blest but wretched we—
For, doom'd a stranger to repose,
No rest the unsettled ocean knows.
The squirrel seeks his hollow tree,
Wolves in their shaded caverns meet,
All, all are blest but wretched we—
For, doom'd a stranger to repose,
No rest the unsettled ocean knows.
Whilst o'er the dark abyss we roam,
Perhaps whate'er the pilots say,
We saw the sun's descending gloom,
No more to see the rising ray;
But buried low, by far too deep,
On coral beds unpitied sleep!
Perhaps whate'er the pilots say,
We saw the sun's descending gloom,
No more to see the rising ray;
But buried low, by far too deep,
On coral beds unpitied sleep!
But what a strange uncoasted strand
Is that where death permits no day,
No charts we have to mark that land,
No compass to direct the way!
What pilot shall explore that realm,
What new Columbus take the helm!
Is that where death permits no day,
No charts we have to mark that land,
No compass to direct the way!
What pilot shall explore that realm,
What new Columbus take the helm!
240
While death and darkness both surround,
And tempests rage with lawless power,
Of friendship's voice I hear no sound,
No comfort in this dreadful hour—
What friendship can in tempests be,
What comforts on this angry sea!
And tempests rage with lawless power,
Of friendship's voice I hear no sound,
No comfort in this dreadful hour—
What friendship can in tempests be,
What comforts on this angry sea!
The barque accustom'd to obey,
No more the trembling pilots guide,
Alone she gropes her trackless way,
While mountains burst on every side.
Thus skill and science both must fall,
And ruin is the lot of all.
No more the trembling pilots guide,
Alone she gropes her trackless way,
While mountains burst on every side.
Thus skill and science both must fall,
And ruin is the lot of all.
| American poems, selected and original | |