Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III Keeping festival in Ardenne, a romance. St. Alban's Abbey, a metrical tale; With some poetical pieces. By Anne Radcliffe ... To which is prefixed: A memoir of the author, with extracts from her journals. In four volumes |
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SEA-VIEWS.
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 | Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III |  |
200
SEA-VIEWS.
MIDNIGHT.
Carolling sweetly to the midnight gale
Above the strife of waves, his voice is heard—
The sea-boy's voice, who, on some top-sail yard,
Bows with the mast, and hangs amid the clouds,
Or sweeps the salt foam from the billow's ridge,
And mocks its fury. Far around he sees,
Beneath the night-gloom, ocean's wondrous fires
Flashing from surge to surge—a boding light,
That seems the spirit of the troubled realm.
Palely it gleams, though bright, now near, now distant,
Shapeless, though visible—though threatening, mute:
Still, sweet he carols on the dizzy cap.
Anon, he hears the storm-bird's slender cry,
And scarcely marks her flitting round and round
And sheltering in the shrouds. Oh, fearful bird!
Herald of warring winds! he heeds thee not;
Nor yet those hollow sounds from strand unseen;
Nor e'en those sullen lights among the clouds,
Whose hue they show more livid; for, behold!
Like to a star, which in th' horizon dawns,
There gleam those guiding, ever watchful fires,
Placed on some low peninsula's long line,
Or on some promontory's pointed horn,
And spied far on the solitary waves
By the poor mariner, who, rocked upon
His dark and billowy cradle, thinks of home,
His little cabin, sheltered by the cliff,
His blazing hearth, bright through the casement seen,
And all the dear-loved faces shining round;
And knows the smiles of welcome ambushed there.
Above the strife of waves, his voice is heard—
The sea-boy's voice, who, on some top-sail yard,
Bows with the mast, and hangs amid the clouds,
Or sweeps the salt foam from the billow's ridge,
And mocks its fury. Far around he sees,
Beneath the night-gloom, ocean's wondrous fires
Flashing from surge to surge—a boding light,
That seems the spirit of the troubled realm.
Palely it gleams, though bright, now near, now distant,
Shapeless, though visible—though threatening, mute:
Still, sweet he carols on the dizzy cap.
201
And scarcely marks her flitting round and round
And sheltering in the shrouds. Oh, fearful bird!
Herald of warring winds! he heeds thee not;
Nor yet those hollow sounds from strand unseen;
Nor e'en those sullen lights among the clouds,
Whose hue they show more livid; for, behold!
Like to a star, which in th' horizon dawns,
There gleam those guiding, ever watchful fires,
Placed on some low peninsula's long line,
Or on some promontory's pointed horn,
And spied far on the solitary waves
By the poor mariner, who, rocked upon
His dark and billowy cradle, thinks of home,
His little cabin, sheltered by the cliff,
His blazing hearth, bright through the casement seen,
And all the dear-loved faces shining round;
And knows the smiles of welcome ambushed there.
Still cheerly sings the watch-boy; down he goes
Through gasping seas; now driving down the gulph,
Now rising light in air; while nearer roll
The thunders of the shore, reverbed from caves
Surge-worn, and cliffs high arching o'er the tide.
But now the plunging lead is heard, and now
The sullen voice of one below calls out
The sounded fathoms; then the master bids
His last sail furl; for well-known sands are nigh,
And louder sweeps the gale. At last, he nears
Those friendly beacon fires, the level line
Of distance changes for the rugged shores,
Whose tops the horizontal twilight mark;
Soon they rise up more bold, solemn, distinct;
And wide unfolds the hospitable bay,
On whose deep margin spreads the wished-for port,
With many dim lamps quivering in the blast.
No joyful shout hails th' approaching crew;
For Sleep has waved his potent wand on high!
The lonely pier receives them; on they steer
For quiet depth, and gradually steal
Into the silent harbour—silent save
The drowsy rippling of the faint sea-tide,
Or when the watch-dog, on some neighbouring deck,
His honest vigil barks, as strangers pass.
And now each heart beats joyfully, as drops
The ready anchor; busy footsteps sound;
Loud swells the mingled voice; the narrow plank
Is hoisted and extends a tottering bridge,
That bears them to the quay; there, bounding light
Once more they press the firm earth, and once more
Each to his long-left home in safety goes.
Dark is the way and silent; yet awhile
And an awakening voice shall call up hope,
And all the poor man's wealth, the wealth of heart!
Through gasping seas; now driving down the gulph,
Now rising light in air; while nearer roll
202
Surge-worn, and cliffs high arching o'er the tide.
But now the plunging lead is heard, and now
The sullen voice of one below calls out
The sounded fathoms; then the master bids
His last sail furl; for well-known sands are nigh,
And louder sweeps the gale. At last, he nears
Those friendly beacon fires, the level line
Of distance changes for the rugged shores,
Whose tops the horizontal twilight mark;
Soon they rise up more bold, solemn, distinct;
And wide unfolds the hospitable bay,
On whose deep margin spreads the wished-for port,
With many dim lamps quivering in the blast.
No joyful shout hails th' approaching crew;
For Sleep has waved his potent wand on high!
The lonely pier receives them; on they steer
For quiet depth, and gradually steal
Into the silent harbour—silent save
The drowsy rippling of the faint sea-tide,
Or when the watch-dog, on some neighbouring deck,
His honest vigil barks, as strangers pass.
203
The ready anchor; busy footsteps sound;
Loud swells the mingled voice; the narrow plank
Is hoisted and extends a tottering bridge,
That bears them to the quay; there, bounding light
Once more they press the firm earth, and once more
Each to his long-left home in safety goes.
Dark is the way and silent; yet awhile
And an awakening voice shall call up hope,
And all the poor man's wealth, the wealth of heart!
| Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III | |