University of Virginia Library

It is a melancholy sight
To see that bird of regal sway
Who holds, in dazzling realms of light,
Proud converse with the King of Day,
By shaft of hunter wounded lie,
With ruffled plume and closing eye,
On common earth far, far below
His throne where Alpine blossoms grow:—
It is a melancholy sight
To mark the hungry raven hover,
When ended is the stormy fight,
Above the father, friend, or lover;
To see, unmindful of the rein,
The gallant steed, with nostril spread,
And gore-drops clinging to his mane,
In death extended on the plain
That echoed to his tread,
When hills sent back the charging cheer,
And sunlight shone on casque and spear:
But far more saddening to the view
To scan some ship bereft of sail,
Deserted by her hardy crew,
And drifting wildly with the gale.
One gazing on that floating wreck
Bethinks him sadly of the day
When hundreds stood upon the deck,
And winds made glad her way;—
When weeping on some distant shore
Stood faithful wife and sylph-like maid
To see the flying bark, that bore
Their loved ones, in the distance fade.
While that lone wreck with riven sides
Dismasted on the billow rides,
The trembling gazer asks the main
To tell her history in vain—
In fancy vieweth wan Despair
Cling wildly to the broken mast,
While wreaths of foam bedeck his hair,
And sweeps in terror by the blast.
Where are the barks that lately gave
A ruddy radiance to the wave,
While the stern voice of War from sleep
Awoke the monsters of the deep?
One floats with helm and cordage gone,
And deck in carnage deeply dyed,
Unguided through the sea whereon
She lately rode a thing of pride:
With spar of strength, and mast that vies
In grace the palm, the other flies,
And proudly on the water flings
The shadow of her mighty wings.
The dolphin, in her dazzling track,
Comes up to “bare his golden back,”
And with the rustling of her shroud
The white surge blends its murmur loud.
With glance, expressive of command,
Her turbaned captain waves his hand,
And, courted by the whistling gale,
Streams haughtily the crescent pale.
Rich goods and bags of Jewish gold
Are lying in her darksome hold—
Ferocious is the chief, whose sway
The tenants of that ship obey;
On his forbidding brow and cheek
Deep scars his bloody trade bespeak.
With hasty stride and eye of fire
He walks the deck in proud attire;
A scarlet turban, fringed with gold,
Begirds his brow with silken fold—
Beneath his oriental vest
With jewels sparkling heaves a breast
Wherein compassion never dwelt,
That never thrill of terror felt.
One gazing on his swarthy face
The darkness of the soul would trace,
And inly whisper:—“Not more vain
Would be petition to the main,
When tempest-sprites their wings unfold,
And revel on his bosom hold,
Than wild appeal to him for life
From lip of foeman in the strife”—
The crooked weapon at his side
His arms in many a fight hath tried,
And never more unsparing sword
Drank blood in grasp of ocean lord.
At times he cast his vengeful eye
Upon a group of captives nigh,
Replying to the word of fear,
And anguished cry with brutal jeer—
Surveying chain-encircled limb,
And gaping wound with visage grim,
Then murmuring with purpose dark—
“A pretty banquet for the shark!”
Or drowning with his crew in song
The wailing of the captive throng.