The poems of John G. C. Brainard A new and authentic collection, with an original memoir of his life |
 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. | III. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
 | The poems of John G. C. Brainard |  |
III.
The eye, the ear, the nostril, and the heart,
How they do snuff and listen, gaze and start,
When the brave vessel strains each brace and line,
Mounts the mad wave, and, dashing through its brine,
Flies from the thick'ning anger of the spray,
And doubly swift leaps forward on her way;
While the keen seaman takes his watchful stand,
And feels the tiller tremble in his hand—
Or lashed securely on the sea-washed side,
Heaves lead, or log, and sings how fast they glide.
How they do snuff and listen, gaze and start,
When the brave vessel strains each brace and line,
Mounts the mad wave, and, dashing through its brine,
149
And doubly swift leaps forward on her way;
While the keen seaman takes his watchful stand,
And feels the tiller tremble in his hand—
Or lashed securely on the sea-washed side,
Heaves lead, or log, and sings how fast they glide.
But that young boy. I think I see him now,
With death upon his eye-lid and his brow;
That eye so blue and clear, that forehead fair,
Those ringlets, too, of close-curled, glossy hair,
That hectic flush, which to the last grew bright,
As his next world's young dawning grew more light;—
Yes! that young boy—the danger and the pain
Of hardships past—the thought that ne'er again
His foot might press the paths his boyhood loved,
Or his hand lift the latchet unreproved,
His ear hear sweet forgiveness—or his eye
See those he loved even from his infancy,—
And then the giddy whirl of his young brain,
Upon the rushing, changing, tumbling main,
Without a friend to look at, by his side,
He wept, and said his prayers, and groaned, and died.
With death upon his eye-lid and his brow;
That eye so blue and clear, that forehead fair,
Those ringlets, too, of close-curled, glossy hair,
That hectic flush, which to the last grew bright,
As his next world's young dawning grew more light;—
Yes! that young boy—the danger and the pain
Of hardships past—the thought that ne'er again
His foot might press the paths his boyhood loved,
Or his hand lift the latchet unreproved,
His ear hear sweet forgiveness—or his eye
See those he loved even from his infancy,—
And then the giddy whirl of his young brain,
Upon the rushing, changing, tumbling main,
Without a friend to look at, by his side,
He wept, and said his prayers, and groaned, and died.
| The poems of John G. C. Brainard | |