 | The Outcast, and other poems |  |
184
THE WRECK.
'Twas night—upon a rock I stood—Before me rolled the troubled seas;
A groaning wreck was on the flood,
And screams came floating on the breeze.
Though home was near, and close the land,
And these had come o'er many a wave—
Yet here, no hope, no help at hand,
Despairing, they must find a grave!
I heard the last faint gurgle hushed,
I heard the whirling waters clash,
As o'er the vanished hull they rushed,
And seemed in merry mirth to flash.
I heard no more—except the dirge—
The hollow dirge that waters sing,
When o'er a wreck the boiling surge,
Its winding sheet of waves doth fling.
I heard no more—for soon the gale,
In sighing breezes died away,
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The moon sent down its mellow ray.
The light was mingled with the tide,
Which seemed to flow a sea of gold,
And glorious in its swelling pride,
No secret of its bosom told.
'Tis past,—yet like that wreck so low,
I too shall sink into my grave,
While o'er my head, both friend and foe,
Shall dance as reckless as the wave!
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