 | The Last Poems of Philip Freneau |  |
59
On the Loss of the Packet Ship Albion. Captain Williams, of New York.
As near the cliffs of old Kinsale,
The Albion plough'd her desperate way,
From Southern skies a threatning Gale
Howl'd through her shrouds, and sung dismay;
Though boisterous seas her flands assail'd
No spirit droop'd or efforts fail'd.
The Albion plough'd her desperate way,
From Southern skies a threatning Gale
Howl'd through her shrouds, and sung dismay;
Though boisterous seas her flands assail'd
No spirit droop'd or efforts fail'd.
On weathering this too fatal shore,
The land a lee predicted ills,
Presaging she should see no more
Dear Sandy Hook, or Jersey Hills;
No more Manhattan's isle review,
The port from which at first she flew.
The land a lee predicted ills,
Presaging she should see no more
Dear Sandy Hook, or Jersey Hills;
No more Manhattan's isle review,
The port from which at first she flew.
The Heavens in black their stars with-held,
A morning carpet veil'd the sky,
The hovering clouds in mists counceal'd
The reefs so near, and rocks so high.
What, now, was skill? what skill could do,
Was try'd, and strength and vigour too.
A morning carpet veil'd the sky,
The hovering clouds in mists counceal'd
The reefs so near, and rocks so high.
What, now, was skill? what skill could do,
Was try'd, and strength and vigour too.
“Cheer up, my friends,” the captain said,
“We yet may shun the dangers near,
Where morning dawn shall be displayed,
The gale may break, the heavens may clear;
And then we soon Old England greet,
With wind abaft and flowing sheet!”
“We yet may shun the dangers near,
Where morning dawn shall be displayed,
The gale may break, the heavens may clear;
And then we soon Old England greet,
With wind abaft and flowing sheet!”
The word was given—the yards were braced,
The bowlines haul'd, she dash'd away;
Well trim'd, the high black wave she faced
In hopes to gain St. George's sea;
Her well known station to attain,
And ride on Mercey's stream again.
The bowlines haul'd, she dash'd away;
Well trim'd, the high black wave she faced
In hopes to gain St. George's sea;
Her well known station to attain,
And ride on Mercey's stream again.
60
That instant, from distracted skies,
The gallant Albion felt a blast,
That human power or force defies.
And made a wreck of every mast;
With what a shock I grieve to tell,
Her spars were broke, her cordage fell!
The gallant Albion felt a blast,
That human power or force defies.
And made a wreck of every mast;
With what a shock I grieve to tell,
Her spars were broke, her cordage fell!
'Twas then the worthy Williams said,
“Dear comrades, I command no more!
Our doom is fixed, the swelling tide
Impels our barque to yonder shore,
And there, as none appear to save,
My noble ship must find a grave—
Yes—there with all her costly freight
My gallant Albion meets her fate.
“Dear comrades, I command no more!
Our doom is fixed, the swelling tide
Impels our barque to yonder shore,
And there, as none appear to save,
My noble ship must find a grave—
Yes—there with all her costly freight
My gallant Albion meets her fate.
A floating mass, a hulk she lies,
She takes her last tremendous roll,
Our Fortune every hope denies
To shun the reef or clear the shoal:
No help, no friend, no safety nigh,
'Tis our's to yield and ours to die!”
She takes her last tremendous roll,
Our Fortune every hope denies
To shun the reef or clear the shoal:
No help, no friend, no safety nigh,
'Tis our's to yield and ours to die!”
He spoke—she struck, with thundering sound,
Then shrieks were heard that rent the sky,
And total ruin stalk'd around;
But, soon was hush'd each fearful cry,
When o'er them burst the last high wave
To all, or most, a watery grave!
Then shrieks were heard that rent the sky,
And total ruin stalk'd around;
But, soon was hush'd each fearful cry,
When o'er them burst the last high wave
To all, or most, a watery grave!
| The Last Poems of Philip Freneau | |