The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith ... Revised by the Author: Coll. ed. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
But in the night she, bearing down the Channel
Through a thick fog, struck on a hidden rock,
Yet in a quiet sea. The sailors thought,
With the next tide she would be floated off;
And many went to sleep again, scarce heeding
Whether she sank or swam, if they might rest,
And sleep and dream of home. But by and by,
The Master grew uneasy, muttered somewhat
Of cranky ships that scarce would float in ponds,
Dry-rotten in the docks—of useless boats
That were but painted tinder; and one heard him
Murmur a prayer for wife and babes, the while
He paced the deck alone, and resolute
Issued his orders. Then a whisper went,
Gloomy, that she was leaking, and would soon
Break up amidships; but as yet there was
No panic, for the land was not far off.
But as the day broke, eerie, on the fog,
The timbers 'gan to crack, and great seams yawned,
And with the rushing tide the terror rose.
Then hands unhandy loosed the painted boats,
And swamped them; and from near four hundred throats
A cry rose to high heaven—a pitiful cry
Of anguish that might touch the heart of Fate,
As to and fro they reeled, and wrung their hands.
Through a thick fog, struck on a hidden rock,
Yet in a quiet sea. The sailors thought,
With the next tide she would be floated off;
And many went to sleep again, scarce heeding
Whether she sank or swam, if they might rest,
And sleep and dream of home. But by and by,
The Master grew uneasy, muttered somewhat
Of cranky ships that scarce would float in ponds,
Dry-rotten in the docks—of useless boats
That were but painted tinder; and one heard him
Murmur a prayer for wife and babes, the while
He paced the deck alone, and resolute
Issued his orders. Then a whisper went,
Gloomy, that she was leaking, and would soon
Break up amidships; but as yet there was
No panic, for the land was not far off.
But as the day broke, eerie, on the fog,
The timbers 'gan to crack, and great seams yawned,
And with the rushing tide the terror rose.
Then hands unhandy loosed the painted boats,
And swamped them; and from near four hundred throats
269
Of anguish that might touch the heart of Fate,
As to and fro they reeled, and wrung their hands.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |