The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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THE LOST SHIP: “THE PRESIDENT.” |
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
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THE LOST SHIP: “THE PRESIDENT.”
[_]
She sailed from New York for England on the 11th of March, 1841, with many passengers, among whom were Lord William Lennox and Tyrone Power, the Comedian, and was never heard of more.
Speak! for thou hast a voice, perpetual sea!
Lift up thy surges with some signal-word:
Show where the pilgrims of the waters be,
For whom a nation's thrilling heart is stirred.
Lift up thy surges with some signal-word:
Show where the pilgrims of the waters be,
For whom a nation's thrilling heart is stirred.
They went down to thy waves with joyous pride,
They trod with steadfast feet thy billowy way:
The eyes of wondering men beheld them glide
Swift in the arrowy distance: where are they?
They trod with steadfast feet thy billowy way:
The eyes of wondering men beheld them glide
Swift in the arrowy distance: where are they?
Didst thou arise upon that giant frame,
Mad, that the strength of man with thee should strive?
And proud, thy rival element to tame,
Didst swallow them in conscious depths, alive?
Mad, that the strength of man with thee should strive?
And proud, thy rival element to tame,
Didst swallow them in conscious depths, alive?
Or, shorn and powerless, hast thou bade them lie,
Their stately ship, a carcase of the foam:
Where still they watch the ocean and the sky,
And fondly dream that they have yet a home?
Their stately ship, a carcase of the foam:
Where still they watch the ocean and the sky,
And fondly dream that they have yet a home?
If thou hast drawn them, mighty tide! declare,
To some far-off immeasurable plain,
'Mid all things wild and wonderful, and where
The magnet woos her iron mate in vain.
To some far-off immeasurable plain,
'Mid all things wild and wonderful, and where
The magnet woos her iron mate in vain.
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Doth hope still soothe their souls, or gladness thrill?
Is peace amid those wanderers of the foam?
Say! is the old affection yearning still,
With all the blessèd memories of home?
Is peace amid those wanderers of the foam?
Say! is the old affection yearning still,
With all the blessèd memories of home?
Or, is it over—life, and breath, and thought,
The living feature, and the breathing form?
Is the strong man become a thing of nought,
And the red blood of rank no longer warm?
The living feature, and the breathing form?
Is the strong man become a thing of nought,
And the red blood of rank no longer warm?
Thou answerest not—thou stern and haughty sea!
There is no sound in earth, or wave, or air.
Roll on, ye tears! Oh, what shall solace be
To hearts that pant for hope, but breathe despair?
There is no sound in earth, or wave, or air.
Roll on, ye tears! Oh, what shall solace be
To hearts that pant for hope, but breathe despair?
Nay, mourner! there is sunlight o'er the deep—
A gentle rainbow on the darkling cloud:
A voice more mighty than the storms shall sweep
The shore of tempests when the storm is loud.
A gentle rainbow on the darkling cloud:
A voice more mighty than the storms shall sweep
The shore of tempests when the storm is loud.
What though they woke the whirlwinds of the West,
Or roused the tempest from some Eastern lair?
Or clave the cloud with thunder in its breast?
Lord of the awful waters! Thou wert there!
Or roused the tempest from some Eastern lair?
Or clave the cloud with thunder in its breast?
Lord of the awful waters! Thou wert there!
All-Merciful! the day, the doom were Thine:
Thou didst surround them on the seething sea;
Thy love too deep, Thy mercy too divine,
To quench them in an hour unmeet for Thee.
Thou didst surround them on the seething sea;
Thy love too deep, Thy mercy too divine,
To quench them in an hour unmeet for Thee.
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If winds were mighty, Thou wert in the gale!
If their feet failed them, in Thy midst they trod!
Storms could not urge the bark, or force the sail,
Or rend the quivering helm—away from God.
If their feet failed them, in Thy midst they trod!
Storms could not urge the bark, or force the sail,
Or rend the quivering helm—away from God.
May, 1841.
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |