 | England |  |
157
SHIPWRECK OF PRINCE WILLIAM. A.D. 1124.
“Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?
Festively she puts forth, in trim array;
And vigorous as a lark at break of day.”
—Wordsworth.
Festively she puts forth, in trim array;
And vigorous as a lark at break of day.”
—Wordsworth.
“Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell;
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave;
Then some leap'd overboard, with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave,
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell.”
—Lord Byron.
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave;
Then some leap'd overboard, with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave,
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell.”
—Lord Byron.
“Of his bones are coral made:
They are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him but doth fade—
But doth suffer a sea-change,
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell—
Hark! now I hear them ding-dong bell.”
Shakspeare.—Ariel's Song.
They are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him but doth fade—
But doth suffer a sea-change,
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell—
Hark! now I hear them ding-dong bell.”
Shakspeare.—Ariel's Song.
How much I love thee, thou rejoicing deep;
Thou art so glad to look on, and so free;
And, when thou wakest from thy kingly sleep,
There is such glory in thy royal glee!
Where do thy sounding footsteps ever flee?
Why ever beateth thus thy troubled breast?
What giant shakes thee so, thou mighty sea,
And wrings thy tresses, and disturbs thy rest,
And makes the silver foam to dash upon thy crest?
Thou art so glad to look on, and so free;
And, when thou wakest from thy kingly sleep,
There is such glory in thy royal glee!
Where do thy sounding footsteps ever flee?
Why ever beateth thus thy troubled breast?
What giant shakes thee so, thou mighty sea,
And wrings thy tresses, and disturbs thy rest,
And makes the silver foam to dash upon thy crest?
158
Yet, in thy restless bosom is a hell
Of murder'd spirits, wandering to and fro.
Death soundeth in the tolling of thy knell,
And tracks thy pearled caverns;—'mid thy flow,
Majestic, wild-hair'd spirits nightly go:
Another sky is thine—another sun—
Another moon than ours: thy pallid brow
Is wreath'd with dead men's bones: when art thou done,
Strange wanderer? when will sound thy latest tone?
Of murder'd spirits, wandering to and fro.
Death soundeth in the tolling of thy knell,
And tracks thy pearled caverns;—'mid thy flow,
Majestic, wild-hair'd spirits nightly go:
Another sky is thine—another sun—
Another moon than ours: thy pallid brow
Is wreath'd with dead men's bones: when art thou done,
Strange wanderer? when will sound thy latest tone?
Lo, in the Norman harbour, far away,
A white-wing'd vessel sleepeth on the wave,
Like a young sea-bird on a summer day!
Softly, against her side, the waters lave
In loving pastime.—Now the bright and brave
Move t'ward her 'mid the festal melody,
(Unconscious quite of the impending grave:)
Gay cavaliers, fair ladies, gather nigh,
Breathe the farewell, and waft their silken scarfs on high.
A white-wing'd vessel sleepeth on the wave,
Like a young sea-bird on a summer day!
Softly, against her side, the waters lave
In loving pastime.—Now the bright and brave
Move t'ward her 'mid the festal melody,
(Unconscious quite of the impending grave:)
Gay cavaliers, fair ladies, gather nigh,
Breathe the farewell, and waft their silken scarfs on high.
Proudly the stately vessel glides along;
Her pennant feeding on the balmy gale;
Loud sounds the music, loud the jocund song,
And sweetly mingle with the ocean's wail,
And the low flutter of the snow-white sail.
The sunny sky looks mildly on her brow—
The softest breezes weave their dreamy tale—
The blue waves sing against her painted prow:
Never did Neptune view so brave a sight till now!
Her pennant feeding on the balmy gale;
Loud sounds the music, loud the jocund song,
And sweetly mingle with the ocean's wail,
And the low flutter of the snow-white sail.
The sunny sky looks mildly on her brow—
The softest breezes weave their dreamy tale—
The blue waves sing against her painted prow:
Never did Neptune view so brave a sight till now!
159
Glide gently on, fair ship, and be thy road
A pleasant one, and may the winds blow mild;
And may the waves beat soft where thou hast trod;
And be thou with thy mermaids' songs beguil'd:
But, hark—hark—hark!—a voice speaks strange and wild!
Why stops the music?—why the dancers' feet?
See, how like rolling hills, the waves are pil'd!
See, how the cold winds flap the shiv'ring sheet;
And how the petrel shrieks from his tempestuous seat!
A pleasant one, and may the winds blow mild;
And may the waves beat soft where thou hast trod;
And be thou with thy mermaids' songs beguil'd:
But, hark—hark—hark!—a voice speaks strange and wild!
Why stops the music?—why the dancers' feet?
See, how like rolling hills, the waves are pil'd!
See, how the cold winds flap the shiv'ring sheet;
And how the petrel shrieks from his tempestuous seat!
And now a sound like thunder booms beneath;
As if a wounded giant from his cave
Bellow'd the last strong agonies of death.
A myriad souls seem sweeping on the wave,
And shriek aloud from out their horrid grave:
Like to a drunken man the ship doth roll,
And wildly fights the hungry storms that rave;
The Ocean opes his jaws as for a meal:
Around her struggling frame his giant sinews steal.
As if a wounded giant from his cave
Bellow'd the last strong agonies of death.
A myriad souls seem sweeping on the wave,
And shriek aloud from out their horrid grave:
Like to a drunken man the ship doth roll,
And wildly fights the hungry storms that rave;
The Ocean opes his jaws as for a meal:
Around her struggling frame his giant sinews steal.
Louder and louder crash—and louder still,
And the batallion'd billows tear her side.
Vain swell these prayers—the storm must have his fill;
The mast rolls down—down drops her pennant's pride;
And now the sea hath won her for his bride.
Shriek louder—what will it avail ye now?
But who is she?—and, lo, she is descried!
And a strong arm beats back the wave.—Ah, woe!
They sink, that precious pair—they sink for evermore!
And the batallion'd billows tear her side.
Vain swell these prayers—the storm must have his fill;
The mast rolls down—down drops her pennant's pride;
And now the sea hath won her for his bride.
Shriek louder—what will it avail ye now?
But who is she?—and, lo, she is descried!
And a strong arm beats back the wave.—Ah, woe!
They sink, that precious pair—they sink for evermore!
160
O, noble act—oh, blessed deed of love!
Angels were gazing from th' applauding sky,
And wept for grief, amid their bowers above,
That two such perfect beings so should die!
The very heart of death did heave a sigh.
And who shall tell King Henry?—who shall bear
The tidings?—Will his tears be ever dry?
And will he ever smile again? or hear
Sweet sounds?—or evermore forget this dream of fear?
Angels were gazing from th' applauding sky,
And wept for grief, amid their bowers above,
That two such perfect beings so should die!
The very heart of death did heave a sigh.
And who shall tell King Henry?—who shall bear
The tidings?—Will his tears be ever dry?
And will he ever smile again? or hear
Sweet sounds?—or evermore forget this dream of fear?
Many a castled hall, from that sad day,
Forgot its joy; and many a maiden's eye
Wax'd dimmer; many a sweet shape died away;
And many a beating heart that once swell'd high.
The pale moon gaz'd on from the wintry sky!
Hast thou no mercy, O, thou rav'ning sea,
That even in thy caresses death should lie?
Thou that can'st show such peace and harmony:
How is't that such wild madness ever springs from thee?
Forgot its joy; and many a maiden's eye
Wax'd dimmer; many a sweet shape died away;
And many a beating heart that once swell'd high.
The pale moon gaz'd on from the wintry sky!
Hast thou no mercy, O, thou rav'ning sea,
That even in thy caresses death should lie?
Thou that can'st show such peace and harmony:
How is't that such wild madness ever springs from thee?
| England | |