THE STEAM-BOAT.
A goodly vessel did I then espy,
Come like a giant from a haven broad,
And lustily along the bay she strode!
Wordsworth—Sonnet.
The sun sinks down—his last beams parting stray,
In streaks of gold along the placid deep,
Far-spreading; and the soft-declining day
Dying, sinks calmly beautiful to sleep,—
Whence comes that lengthening rush? Is it the sweep
Of some far distant torrent? Whence may be
Those breeze-borne notes of harmony, that creep,
Softened by distance, onward, till the sea
Is filled with swelling strains of sweetest melody!
On comes the steamer swift—swift she glides by!
Proud, steady, and majestic! surely she
Disdains by help of winds or tides to fly,
Aye, though they both at once opposing be,
Would still sweep on resistless through the sea!
Around her prow the dancing waters play;
And, rattling on in swift succession, see,
The fast-revolving paddles beat away
The waves, that rise on high in clouds of foaming spray!
As the heart heaves within the troubled breast,
Late moved by some wild passion; and 'tis long
Before the fluttering spirits sink to rest,
Still shaken by the dark tumultuous throng
Of feelings which survive the first, the strong
Excitement, ceased itself;—so though no more
The steamer labours the vexed waves among,
Still rise the heaving waters—still they pour
Back, as with greater force, to lash the opposing shore
1827.
