The Wreck of The London :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Wreck of The London

A Lyrical Ballad, By John A. Heraud. Published in Aid of the Fund for Building A Life-Boat to be Called "The G. V. Brooke"

Heraud, John A. (1799-1887)

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THE WRECK OF THE LONDON:

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THE WRECK OF THE LONDON:

A Lyrical Ballad,

“THE RACE IS NOT TO THE SWIFT, NOR THE BATTLE TO THE STRONG.”

ARGUMENT.

The Italian Barque, the Marianople, Captain Cavassa, is hailed on the morning of Friday, January 12, 1866, by the Port Cutter of “The London;” but by reason of the darkness, it not being yet daybreak, no aid can be immediately rendered. Ultimately, however, they find each other, and the occupants of the Boat are saved. The passengers relate to the Captain the story of their shipwreck. On the following Tuesday (16 January), they and the crew are landed in safety at Falmouth.

PART THE FIRST.

I

The risen Moon looks down from Heaven,
Glassed in the tossing Sea,
And among the billows tempest-driven,
Her beams shine brokenly.
What shadow is that which to, and fro,
Passes 'twixt them and her shadow below?

II

Now plunges it beneath the surge,
Now mounts above the foam,
Now seems its way to guide and urge,
Now yields as overcome;
Whiles, in its movements everywhere,
Methinks a mind and will appear.

III

Hark! there's a cry—a human voice:
The Darkness spreads between:
We'd bid the speaker to rejoice,
Might but his form be seen.
A Boat with lives aboard, no doubt,
It is that hails us. Tack about.

IV

An hour has sped. Beheld by them,
Yet we behold them not;
Vainly they strain the squall to stem,
And we to find the spot
Where their wild issue they abide:
No light have they our search to guide.

V

Another and another hour,
And lo, the dawn at length;
The sun arises in his power,
And placid in his strength—
But still the winds with the billows play,
And riot in their reckless way.

VI

Sun! that see'st all beneath the sky,
Say, where that Boat may be,
Which in the gloom sent forth a cry
That challenged sympathy.
Nowhere upon the broad expanse
That Boat rewards our eager glance.

VII

As we of them have lost the sight,
So they of us, if still they live;
Perchance, for them the morning-light
Has nothing of the day to give,
And under the unquiet waves
They slumber in unfathomed graves.

VIII

But when did valour know despair?
Look, seamen, far and wide,
If still they breathe the ocean-air,
Their Boat may be descried.
Ha! there, before the sea it skims,
And like a living creature swims.

IX

They sight us now;—their oars they ply,
Direct for us they make—
But, no—the cross seas suddenly
Above them blend and break.
Again, they strain, with might and main,
Resolved our Barque's defence to gain.

X

Vain labour! four long hours are passed,
A fifth has long begun.
They scud before the driving blast,
All rowing as but one.
Full right their aim—more nigh—more nigh—
And now they reach us:—hear their cry!

XI

What, ho, boys, welcome;—steer, boys, steer
Alongside our good Barque—
The refuge that you seek is here:
Sought blindly in the dark;
Now, in the daylight truly find
A ready shelter, safe and kind.

XII

Thus spake Cavassa from the stern
To those who manned that Boat,
But ere his meaning they discern,
A squall drives them remote;
A sea they ship; and oh, they fear
They may be lost,—with rescue near.

XIII

One single man arose, about
The rest sat watching there;
As he, slow-moving, baled her out,
Until he baled her clear.
Then from the Barque a line was thrown,
And drew them upward, one by one.

XIV

And all are now upon that deck,
Though numbed in every limb,
The sad survivors of a wreck,
With visage wan and grim—
Then gave to them the Captain good
Fresh raiment, baths and beds, and food.

XV

Their needs supplied, with better cheer
Their grateful hearts are filled—
And, broken with their sobs, his ear
With thankful words is thrilled,
Yet yearned to list the yarn they span,
A tale too true!—
And thus it ran.

PART THE SECOND.

I

Light blew the wind, calm was the night,
Our Ship at Plymouth lay,
That thither, with a gale forthright,
Had steamed the previous day:
Named was she by a name of worth,
The merchant city of the earth.

II

But now with weather treacherous fair,
And breezes falsely mild,
We deemed our Iron Ship might dare
Once more the ocean wild,
Soon after midnight—famed for speed—
And safely on her course proceed.

III

The Swift, the Strong stands out to sea,
All early doubts subdued,
Steam to her bulk a soul shall be,
Though winds, though waves be rude;
Science gives courage to our minds—
Then what care we for waves and winds?

IV

And yet if Science make us brave,
Should it not make us wise?
Were there no warnings that it gave
Of wrathful seas and skies?
In strength and swiftness we confide,
And fear with caution thrust aside.

V

A day, a night,'tis merry cheer;
Our Ship glides swiftly on:
But now the Sabbath morn is near,
And threatens change anon.
Now blows the wind, now falls the rain,
And swells the sea, like a spirit in pain.

VI

And all that day, and all the next,
Still gradual rose the wind,
And still the head-sea, yet more vexed,
Grew mightier, like a mind
That, stung with passion, larger grows,
And feels an angry giant's throes.

VII

Wild was the night, slow broke the light,
Still fiercely blew the gale;
And now with the swirl of its terrible whirl,
Might the bravest of men turn pale.
One sudden sweep, and away it tore
Jibboom and masts, main, mizen and fore.

VIII

Fast by the stays still hang the spars,
And to and fro they swing;
Vainly that crew of sturdy tars
Aim at their steadying.
Still grows the gale;—the main royal mast,
Blown from its socket, yields to the blast.

IX

And as it grows, the Captain brave
The blustering gale withstands;—
Watching unmoved the mountain wave
That mocketh at man's commands,
So, striking with scorn the vessel it harried,
Hath the Port Life-boat from the davits carried.

X

Over the deck in frequent sport
The laughing billows leap;
How blithely they hold their merry court,
Amidst the noisy deep.
No work may be done, when they will play;
No raft constructed where they have sway.

XI

Then bespake the Captain his Engineer:
“The Ship about put we,
And straight again for Plymouth bear,
Full speed, and steadily.”
So said, so done;—but, ere an hour,
Uprose the sea in the pride of power.

XII

His trident the Sea-god raised; while he
Weird words was heard to utter;—
And set the Starboard Life-boat free,
And stove in the Starboard Cutter.
Then heavily rolled the Ship afeard,
And dead astern the wind careered.

XIII

Slowly ahead the vessel steamed—
The Captain kept his post—
The Officers still dauntless seemed,
And none in fear were lost.
So fell the night; and hopeful they,
Though the Ship rolled deeply, sped away.

XIV

The thundering gale from the south-west blew,
At the clouds all the Ocean dashed,
Then, like a cataract, anew
On the waist of the vessel down plashed,
Scattering and shattering, in its ire,
The hatchway shelter, the engine fire.

XV

Wild was the wail, and loud the cry,
As the fires were quenched, and the flood
Above the furnaces rose, and on high
In triumph grew madder of mood.
The decks, they swam with the rushing tide;
“Set the sail,” the Commander said—or sighed.

XVI

But the maintop was no sooner set,
Than shredded by the wind—
Alone the danger may now be met
By energy of mind.
Heroic man! whose forces are
With nature's evermore at war.

XVII

Heroic man? Not all are such—
And so it happened here:
Part of the crew were sordid Dutch;
These yielding to despair,
Ignoble, to their berths they skulked,
And died ignobly, while they sulked.

XVIII

Then might be seen in brave endeavour
The rest, both craft and crew—
Shall Britons yield to danger? Never!
One of that band we knew,
A famous Actor, fortune-tried,
More famous by the death he died.

XIX

Foremost amongst the valiant he,
Who strove that Ship to save;
He worked at the pumps incessantly,
The bravest of the brave.
His manly figure simply girt
With trouse and red Crimean shirt.

XX

Bare both of head and of foot, he dared
Alike the wind and the wave,
And trod the decks like one who shared
The comfort that he gave—
Formed both to lead and to obey,
Serving and ruling with sovran sway.

XXI

Yes, Brooke! thy name and memory
Are everlasting now:
Methought that this was legibly
Writ on thy chastened brow,
While, swinging the Companion door,
Thou stoodst of our gaze the Cynosure.

XXII

Thy chin reposed on either hand,
And calmly watching all,
Awaiting His supreme command,
Who minds a sparrow's fall;
But thinking of thy Melbourne friends,
Whom to the Steward thy care commends.

XXIII

“If you should save yourself,” he said,
“Give my farewell to them:”
And then was silent—not with dread,
Nor hope his doom to stem—
But with expectancy sedate
Of an inevitable fate.

XXIV

There, while he stood, in pensive mood,
A stern sea bore away
The posts, and poured, through the breach aboard,
A torrent of foam and spray.
Then to the cuddy the Captain trod;—
“All hope is lost! We must trust in God!”

XXV

Prayers and farewells were hurriedly said,
And counsels of friends for life:
“Save thyself in the Boat.” “Nay, I promise made
To stay with my children and wife,
And so will I do.” So he did, as I heard,
The husband, the father, true to his word.

XXVI

In the Starboard Pinnace trusted had we,
But she sank in the effort to launch;
Then we get the Port Pinnace into the sea,
That so heavily hangs on her haunch,
Like a hound on a stag, that many prefer
The frail sinking ship to trusting in her.

XXVII

And the Captain said—“Small chance is there
For the Boat; for the Ship there is none.
Command her, good Greenhill: my duty is here.”
So we did as he bade, every one.
We shouted to him as he stood on the deck:
“God speed you,” said he; “I abide by the wreck.”

XXVIII

Then pulled we away, on the crest of the waves,
Dancing aloft in the wind;
Our companions we saw descend to their graves,
Whom we had left behind.
A moment, the Steamer her bows upreared,
Then fell sternforemost, and disappeared.

XXIX

So loud was the roar of the tempest then,
We heard not a wail, or a cry.
Perhaps there was none; for on women and men
A great calm, like the Dove from on high,
Had settled, when told of their certain doom
By him who foreknew that their hour was come.

PART THE THIRD.

I

Cavassa heard the mournful tale:
“A dreadful night,” quoth he,
“A hurricane then blew the gale,
We, too, shipped many a sea—
With wheat for Cork our Barque was stored,
But half our cargo's overboard.”

II

Nor ceased the peril yet—to maim
Still wrestled wind and wave;
And, ere the Barque to Falmouth came,
Her useful rudder gave
To the mad tempest's wanton force,
Intent on Ruin's wasteful course.

III

Then was Cavassa well repaid
By those whom he had saved;
Their toil and skill combined to aid
That noble Barque, and braved
New dangers with a constant mind,
That would not yield to wave or wind.

IV

On England's shore the joy was great,
When those, the rescued few,
Landed, their perils to relate
That they had suffered through;
The “marvels unto those made known,
Who to the Sea in Ships go down.”

END.