The writings of Robert C. Sands in prose and verse with a memoir of the author |
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LAY OF THE LAST FISHERMAN. |
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 | The writings of Robert C. Sands |  |
283
LAY OF THE LAST FISHERMAN.
The sun was sinking in his glory
Behind the dark bluff's shaggy brow,
His ruddy rays stream'd thro' its verdure,
And streak'd with fire the wave below.
Lit by his sad and parting radiance
Was every tint of varying green;
The distant spires of yon proud city
Bright flaming in the ray were seen.
Behind the dark bluff's shaggy brow,
His ruddy rays stream'd thro' its verdure,
And streak'd with fire the wave below.
Lit by his sad and parting radiance
Was every tint of varying green;
The distant spires of yon proud city
Bright flaming in the ray were seen.
Fill'd by the mournful gale of even
The white sails o'er the water mov'd,
When came a mariner all lonely,
To bid adieu to scenes he loved.
His locks hung scattered on the breezes,
Like sea-weeds wild dishevell'd spread;
Ruddy his visage, weather-beaten,
Like coral nurs'd in ocean's bed.
The white sails o'er the water mov'd,
When came a mariner all lonely,
To bid adieu to scenes he loved.
284
Like sea-weeds wild dishevell'd spread;
Ruddy his visage, weather-beaten,
Like coral nurs'd in ocean's bed.
The waters blue lay calm and stilly,
As if to tempt him back again,
When stretching out his arms to heaven,
Thus spoke the LATEST Fisherman:
“The hour is come, and I must leave ye,
To wend where tempests furious blow;
Last of my race I fondly linger'd,
Till hope hath fled—and I must go.
As if to tempt him back again,
When stretching out his arms to heaven,
Thus spoke the LATEST Fisherman:
“The hour is come, and I must leave ye,
To wend where tempests furious blow;
Last of my race I fondly linger'd,
Till hope hath fled—and I must go.
“Deserted now, too lovely river!
The bare poles o'er thy waters stand,
And soon the winds and waves careering,
Shall root them from the treacherous sand.
Moor'd in yon gentle creek securely,
My little bark? how wilt thou bide?
Will thine own element destroy thee?
Will strangers bear thee o'er the tide?
The bare poles o'er thy waters stand,
And soon the winds and waves careering,
Shall root them from the treacherous sand.
Moor'd in yon gentle creek securely,
My little bark? how wilt thou bide?
Will thine own element destroy thee?
Will strangers bear thee o'er the tide?
“O! if their grasp with hands unhallow'd
Should bear thee from that lov'd retreat,
Gape all thy wounds, and break thy rudder,
And midway let them ruin meet!—
I go where ocean darkly rages—
I go to ride the billowy wave—
Farewell! farewell! I must not linger,
If I the ocean storms would brave.
Should bear thee from that lov'd retreat,
Gape all thy wounds, and break thy rudder,
And midway let them ruin meet!—
I go where ocean darkly rages—
I go to ride the billowy wave—
Farewell! farewell! I must not linger,
If I the ocean storms would brave.
“Fare thee well, thou gallant Hudson,
If for ever, fare thee well!
Waft my last sigh, evening breezes,
Bear it on thy murmuring swell!
Fare thee well, thou fir-clad Weehawk!
Bend thy dark leaves in the gale;
Wave thy cedars now, all mournful
As they seem, to bid farewell!
If for ever, fare thee well!
Waft my last sigh, evening breezes,
Bear it on thy murmuring swell!
Fare thee well, thou fir-clad Weehawk!
Bend thy dark leaves in the gale;
Wave thy cedars now, all mournful
As they seem, to bid farewell!
“Fare thee well, my host, who kindly
Still for me bid cheerers foam,
I will bless thee, when, all dripping,
Driving on the deep I roam.
Fare thee well, too fair Maraunche—
Oh! my heart is failing now—”
Wild he look'd—put on his old hat,
As he rush'd from Weehawk's brow!
Still for me bid cheerers foam,
I will bless thee, when, all dripping,
Driving on the deep I roam.
285
Oh! my heart is failing now—”
Wild he look'd—put on his old hat,
As he rush'd from Weehawk's brow!
Then methought that by the river
Bless'd Saint Anthony had stood,
Calling to a second sermon
All the fishes of the flood!
For the wave was hid, where swarming,
Wild with joy's delicious power,
Big and little, porpoise, killie,
Tumbled on its top that hour!
Sport awhile, ye gentle fishes,
While ye may, for soon ye'll mourn—
One destroyer now hath left ye,
But a thousand will return!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Bless'd Saint Anthony had stood,
Calling to a second sermon
All the fishes of the flood!
For the wave was hid, where swarming,
Wild with joy's delicious power,
Big and little, porpoise, killie,
Tumbled on its top that hour!
Sport awhile, ye gentle fishes,
While ye may, for soon ye'll mourn—
One destroyer now hath left ye,
But a thousand will return!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[Hiatus valde deflendus.]
| The writings of Robert C. Sands | |