The poetical works of Samuel Rogers :: :: University of Virginia Library

Yet who but He undaunted could explore
A world of waves, a sea without a shore,
Trackless and vast and wild as that revealed
When round the Ark the birds of tempest wheeled;
When all was still in the destroying hour—
No sign of man! no vestige of his power!
One at the stern before the hour-glass stood,
As 'twere to count the sands; one o'er the flood
Gazed for St. Elmo; while another cried
“Once more good morrow!” and sate down and sighed.
Day, when it came, came only with its light.
Though long invoked, 'twas sadder than the night!
Look where He would, for ever as He turned,
He met the eye of one that inly mourned.

Then sunk his generous spirit, and He wept.
The friend, the father rose; the hero slept.
Palos, thy port, with many a pang resigned,
Filled with its busy scenes his lonely mind;
The solemn march, the vows in concert given,

The bended knees and lifted hands to heaven,
The incensed rites, and choral harmonies,
The Guardian's blessings mingling with his sighs;
While his dear boys—ah, on his neck they hung,
And long at parting to his garments clung.

Oft in the silent night-watch doubt and fear
Broke in uncertain murmurs on his ear.
Oft the stern Catalan, at noon of day,
Muttered dark threats, and lingered to obey;
Tho' that brave Youth—he, whom his courser bore
Right thro' the midst, when, fetlock-deep in gore,
The great Gonsalvo battled with the Moor,
(What time the Alhambra shook—soon to unfold
Its sacred courts, and fountains yet untold,
Its holy texts and arabesques of gold)
Tho' Roldan, sleep and death to him alike,
Grasped his good sword and half unsheathed to strike.
“Oh born to wander with your flocks,” he cried,
“And bask and dream along the mountain-side;
To urge your mules, tinkling from hill to hill;
Or at the vintage-feast to drink your fill,
And strike your castanets, with gipsy-maid
Dancing Fandangos in the chestnut shade—
Come on,” he cried, and threw his glove in scorn,
“Not this your wonted pledge, the brimming horn.
Valiant in peace! Adventurous at home!

Oh, had ye vowed with pilgrim-staff to roam;
Or with banditti sought the sheltering wood,
Where mouldering crosses mark the scene of blood!—”
He said, he drew; then, at his Master's frown,
Sullenly sheathed, plunging the weapon down.