 | Valentine Verses |  |
227
THE WRECK.
Is there a grief when o'er the foaming main,
The stately vessel labors in the gale;
When pilot's hand, or captain's voice is vain,
When billows rage and blasts o'er blasts prevail;
When ev'ry heave the stately timbers strain,
And burst the shrouds and rend the quivering sail;
Is there a grief, man's harden'd heart can check?
O view with awe the melancholy wreck!
The stately vessel labors in the gale;
When pilot's hand, or captain's voice is vain,
When billows rage and blasts o'er blasts prevail;
When ev'ry heave the stately timbers strain,
And burst the shrouds and rend the quivering sail;
Is there a grief, man's harden'd heart can check?
O view with awe the melancholy wreck!
Ye sailors, tell me? I have seen your smile,
Your looks of joy observant on the sea,
When homeward-bound the vessel comes in style,
And nears the harbour or the well-known quay;
O tell me, tell me, sons of England's isle,
Who yet have hearts to suffer and be free,
You who have trode so gallantly the deck,
Is it not grief to contemplate the Wreck?
Your looks of joy observant on the sea,
When homeward-bound the vessel comes in style,
And nears the harbour or the well-known quay;
O tell me, tell me, sons of England's isle,
Who yet have hearts to suffer and be free,
You who have trode so gallantly the deck,
Is it not grief to contemplate the Wreck?
228
Ye know the value of the stately frame,
Ye know the beauty of her shape and make;
Each cord, each sail, each tackle ye can name,
The care and caution, wisdom it must take,
To plan, to build, to launch, to steer, the same,—
Ye know all this, and feelingly awake,
Must own in truth the distant lovely speck,
A melancholy aspect when a wreck.
Ye know the beauty of her shape and make;
Each cord, each sail, each tackle ye can name,
The care and caution, wisdom it must take,
To plan, to build, to launch, to steer, the same,—
Ye know all this, and feelingly awake,
Must own in truth the distant lovely speck,
A melancholy aspect when a wreck.
If any work of human skill and hand
Be truly noble, or appear to view
Of humble mortal positively grand,
(I speak in wisdom positively true,)
A first-rate vessel must the sight command,
And man acknowledge wisdom must be due.
A moment pause, thy senses take the beck,
Behold the change, a miserable wreck.
Be truly noble, or appear to view
Of humble mortal positively grand,
(I speak in wisdom positively true,)
A first-rate vessel must the sight command,
And man acknowledge wisdom must be due.
A moment pause, thy senses take the beck,
Behold the change, a miserable wreck.
Hearts must ye have, for sailors ever feel,
Think then a moment of the Poet's line,
He wants no praise, his heart is not of steel,
He writes in wisdom: Never be supine,
But look on man as melancholy keel.
Whatever noble, drunk with strife and wine,
Forgets his honor or his passion's check,
Resembles this—a miserable wreck!
Think then a moment of the Poet's line,
He wants no praise, his heart is not of steel,
He writes in wisdom: Never be supine,
But look on man as melancholy keel.
Whatever noble, drunk with strife and wine,
Forgets his honor or his passion's check,
Resembles this—a miserable wreck!
229
A lovely woman, O my heart! my heart!
So fair, so handsome, form'd in beauty's frame!
To see her false, I cannot bear the smart,
To see her faithless, wreck'd without a name,—
A lovely woman act a worthless part,
Lost to herself, her family, and fame,
O sight of horror! All my senses queck!—
She, most of all, is melancholy wreck!
So fair, so handsome, form'd in beauty's frame!
To see her false, I cannot bear the smart,
To see her faithless, wreck'd without a name,—
A lovely woman act a worthless part,
Lost to herself, her family, and fame,
O sight of horror! All my senses queck!—
She, most of all, is melancholy wreck!
Can nature feel? O think, my gentle friend,
If thinking ever can thy heart controul,—
If man, a builder of a vessel, bend
To see the ocean o'er his fabric roll,
What must the Maker feel, to see the end
Of one unhappy self-devoted soul.
Think thou in time, in time thy senses check,
Lest thou become a melancholy wreck.
If thinking ever can thy heart controul,—
If man, a builder of a vessel, bend
To see the ocean o'er his fabric roll,
What must the Maker feel, to see the end
Of one unhappy self-devoted soul.
Think thou in time, in time thy senses check,
Lest thou become a melancholy wreck.
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