Poems (1885) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Fair sight! for a crew
Of Englishmen true,
When homeward their course they hold,
With sails bleached white
By the tropic light,
And sheathing a-glitter like gold;
Fair sight! from the rails,
—When the Topman hails
“Land ho! on the larboard!”—to see
The green waves leap
At the white cliff's steep
On the shore of the land of the free:—

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Fair music they make together,
The cliff and the climbing foam;
And it sounds in the bright blue weather
Like the wanderer's welcome home.

But when the east wind howleth,
And the great seas rise and rave,
Another sight
Is that belt of white,
And another sound's on the wave;
Small welcome for wildered vessel,
When the billows, giant and grey,
Break—sworn on the sand
Her keel to strand,
And her ribs on the rocks to lay!
Oh! the silver gates of your island
Were liker the gates of hell,
In the mist of that winter morning
To the crew of the “Northern Belle.”

We left New York for London,
(And the wind left with us too!)

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We thrashed our way
Through Atlantic spray,
And ran the Channel through;
'Twas three on the morning of Monday
When we let the anchors go
Ten cables, or more,
From Kingsgate shore,
To ride out the storm and snow;
Ten cables from where green meadows,
And quiet homes could be seen,
No greater space
From peril to peace—
But the savage sea between!

Yet a greater space
To us had been grace,
For still as we neared the shore,
The wild white roll of the waves on the shoal
Roared round us more and more;
Roared out, in a ring around us,
You might see them fore and aft,

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On ragged ledge,
And splintered edge,
All mad to dash our craft;
While the weltering rocks,
With their sea-weed locks
Awash in the whirling froth,
Stood up like slaves
Of the winds and waves,
Waiting to wreak their wrath.

Not yet, brave ship!
For the anchor's grip
Is fast in the ooze and shell;
The gusts may shake,
And the great surge break,
But the iron holds her well.
If a smith could tell,
As his sledge-hammer fell,
That each little link should hold
The craft and the crew,
And their lives' hope too,
His strokes would be strong and bold!

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Ease, ease, mad strain!
Hold, hold, good chain!
We freshened the hawse once more;
'Twas ten of the day,
And the vessel lay
Stern on to the snow-dimmed shore.

And now from the town
They hurry down,
For the cry is “A Wreck!” “A Wreck!”
(Ah! under their tread
Is the firm green mead,
'Neath ours but the slippery deck).
Kind souls! they shout!
Look! yonder comes out
A lugger from off the land,
Brave crew and craft!—
Ready fore and aft!—
She will lend us a helping hand:
'Bout ship! so, so!
She stays,—yes! no!
Port, port! ah Heaven! that sea—

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Gone—vessel and men
While the heart beats ten!
Gone,—drowned, for their charity!

Rose from each lip
On shore, and ship,
A cry, a groan, a prayer;
While the nine hearts brave
Went under the wave,
And their death-cry hung in air;
No seaman but felt
His man's heart melt;—
But the masts were down ere now,
And the raffle and wreck,
Scarce clear of the deck,
Hung, fouling the larboard bow;
So we shouted at last,
“Clear away that mast
Or else we are ill bested!
God take those home!
When our turn's come
The dead can bury the dead.”

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Thus, all that day,
In snow and spray,
For dear life still we toiled;
And faint and few
The bold words grew
As nearer the breakers boiled;
And still, like a steed
Reined back at speed,
The ship did plunge and rear;
While the burly main
Strove on in vain
To crack our cable and gear:
Till the twilight gloom,
Like the earth on the tomb,
Came over, and hid the town;
And the last we could see,
They were busy a-lee
Dragging the life-boats down.

Ah me! no boat
In that surf could float,
No oarsmen cleave a way;

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No eye so bright
As to pierce the night
That on land and water lay:
Oh! leaden dark!
That left no spark
Of star, in the wild wet sky,
Not one pale ray
To glimmer and say
That God and help were nigh.
The timbers racked,
The cables cracked,
Wilder the waters dashed;
Ease her! no need—
The ship is freed!
She drove,—she rose,—she crashed!

Then settled and fell
The “Northern Belle,”
As one who no more strives;
But the foremast stood,
Good Canada wood,
With nine and twenty lives:

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If dreadful the day
As none can say,
Oh! the night was terribler far,
As each man clung
To the shrouds, or hung
Ice-cold, on the icy spar;
And hearts beat slow,
As the night did go,
Like a lazily-ticking clock;
Till we longed to drop
From the dripping top
Nor wait for the last sure shock.

Then, while she did grind,
We called to mind
Each one, his own home-place,
New Jersey towns,
And Connecticut downs,
And the pleasant meadows of maize:
We thought of brothers,
And wives and mothers,
With whom we should never be;

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Of our babies playing,
Or perhaps a prayer saying
For “daddy,” far off at sea;
And we said prayers
To mingle with theirs,
And held for the daylight still,
Which came anon
When hope was gone
As God's best mercies will.

For, soon as the clouds,
Like great grey shrouds,
Let out the Lazarus-light,
We looked to land
And saw on the sand,
Good God! a cheery sight;—
Seven noble men
(Christ save them, then!)
That would not see us drown,
With oars in hand,
And the life-boat manned,
(The life-boat dragged from the town;)

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And they gave us a cheer
We could plainly hear,
Which we answered with aching throat:
Ah then! dear life!
To watch the strife
Between the storm and the boat.

More strong and steep
The waves did leap
For every stroke she made;
As they were bound
To see us drowned,
And would not be gainsayed:
“Now, now! ah now!
Pull bow! pull bow!
Oh! yonder swells a sea,
She swamps!—no! no!
Thank God, not so!
She rounds beneath our lee,”
—Thrice with a freight
Of lives they fight
Their way—stern down and stem—

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Then—safe and sound,
On the English ground!
Thanks to the Lord, and them.

Look ye, mates mine!
There be stories fine
Of Greek and Roman deed;
But when all's done
There was never one
Of better help at need.
Which man of our crew,
My messmates true,
But holds his life a gift
From those brave Seven,
Henceforward, please Heaven,
To be used with thoughtful thrift!
To be held on earth
For service of worth,
Save when Englishmen cry—and then
Come storm, come slaughter,
To be spent like water
For the sake of the Kingsgate men.

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There are those at home,
When the news is come,
Will crowd to hear of the ship,
With great tears rounding,
And glad hearts bounding,
And blessings a-pant on the lip.
There are girls there, plenty,
Not come to twenty,
Too shy and demure to speak,
Real ladies,—would kiss
For love of this,
Each man of that crew on his cheek:
Ay! count it grand
To touch but a hand
Of the Seven, who staked their lives,
Lost seamen to save
From a cold sea-grave,
And send them to sisters and wives.

I'll say one thing
Before I bring
This plain sea-song to its end,

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Such hearts of gold,
More than state-craft old,
Will help all quarrels to mend.
America sent,
With warm intent,
Your ship for a new-year's token,
You give her back
Our lives from wrack,
Shall such friends ever be broken?
No! no! they shall stand
Hand fast in hand,
All sisterly—side by side—
And none ever tell
Of the “Northern Belle,”
Save with flushes and smiles of pride.

Yet more's to do,—
That first boat's crew
In this verse shall be given,
That Yankee boys
With a ready voice
May say the list of the Seven.

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The men I write
In the “Mary White,”
George Castle's boat, did go—
John, Castle's brother,
George Fox, another,
Ned Emptage and Jem Rowe—
Those gallant five
Did save alive
Our crew from the “Northern Belle,”
With Robert Miller
And William Hiller

I have no more to tell.

Hastings, Jan. 23, 1857.