Ellen Gray or, The dead maiden's curse. A poem, by the late Dr. Archibald Macleod [i.e. W. L. Bowles] |
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 | Ellen Gray |  |
Ruth's husband left the bay,—the wind and rain
Came down,—the tempest swept the southern main;—
Whether his skiff on some black shore was cast,
Or, whelm'd, he slept beneath the ocean vast,
Was never known;—but, from his native shore,
Thy husband, Ruth, sail'd,—and return'd no more.
Seven years had pass'd,—and after evening pray'r,
To Hubert's cottage Ruth would oft repair,
And with her little son full late would stay,
Listening to tales of regions far away.
The wond'ring boy lov'd of wild scenes to hear;
Of battles of the roving buccaneer;
Of wild-fires lighted in the forest glen,
And songs and dances of the savage men;
Then the pale mother would sit by and weep,
While Hubert told the dangers of the deep.
He spoke of many a peril he had pass'd,—
Of howling night-fiends riding on the blast,—
Of those, who, lonely and of hope bereft,
Upon some melancholy rock are left,
Who mark, despairing, at the close of day,
Perhaps, some far-off vessel sail away.
He spoke with pity of the land of slaves—
Then, of the phantom-ship that rides the roaring waves .
It comes! it comes! A melancholy light
Gleams from the prow upon the storm of night.
'Tis here! 'tis there! In vain the billows roll;
It steers right on,—but not a living soul
Is there, to guide its voyage thro' the dark,
Or spread the sails of that terrific bark.
He spoke of vast sea-serpents, how they float
For many a rood, or near some hurrying boat
Lift up their tall neck, with a hissing sound ,
And turn their blood-shot eye-balls questing round.
He spoke of sea-maids, on the desert rocks,
Who in the sun comb their green, dripping locks,
While, heard at distance, in the parting ray,
Beyond the farthest promontory grey,
Aërial music swells and dies away!
Came down,—the tempest swept the southern main;—
Whether his skiff on some black shore was cast,
Or, whelm'd, he slept beneath the ocean vast,
Was never known;—but, from his native shore,
Thy husband, Ruth, sail'd,—and return'd no more.
Seven years had pass'd,—and after evening pray'r,
To Hubert's cottage Ruth would oft repair,
And with her little son full late would stay,
Listening to tales of regions far away.
The wond'ring boy lov'd of wild scenes to hear;
Of battles of the roving buccaneer;
Of wild-fires lighted in the forest glen,
And songs and dances of the savage men;
Then the pale mother would sit by and weep,
While Hubert told the dangers of the deep.
He spoke of many a peril he had pass'd,—
Of howling night-fiends riding on the blast,—
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Upon some melancholy rock are left,
Who mark, despairing, at the close of day,
Perhaps, some far-off vessel sail away.
He spoke with pity of the land of slaves—
Then, of the phantom-ship that rides the roaring waves .
It comes! it comes! A melancholy light
Gleams from the prow upon the storm of night.
'Tis here! 'tis there! In vain the billows roll;
It steers right on,—but not a living soul
Is there, to guide its voyage thro' the dark,
Or spread the sails of that terrific bark.
He spoke of vast sea-serpents, how they float
For many a rood, or near some hurrying boat
Lift up their tall neck, with a hissing sound ,
And turn their blood-shot eye-balls questing round.
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Who in the sun comb their green, dripping locks,
While, heard at distance, in the parting ray,
Beyond the farthest promontory grey,
Aërial music swells and dies away!
| Ellen Gray | |