The bard, and minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

This voyage of the Syria was her first. She sailed from the port the preceding evening, and had only been launched a few days. Amongst the sailors was a youth making his first voyage, and his afflicted mother saw him perish from the shore.

The calm and stillness of the dying year—
Light clouds, bright sun, a clear and lovely sky—
These were thy dower, bright ship, the offerings dear
Bestow'd by Nature with a parting sigh,
As o'er the azure deep thou swep'st in glory by.

The waves roll'd fresh and joyous at thy prow;
The breezes revell'd in thy sails with pride;
Bravely thy pennant flutter'd to and fro,
As keen to track the watery prospect wide,
And pierce the far obscure, a monitor and guide.

High hopes, proud thoughts, and bounding hearts were there,
Dauntless for deeds of triumph on the wave;
They feared not sleety rains, nor murky air,
Nor lowering clouds, nor when the tempests rave,—
Alas! that smiling deep, how soon to be their grave!

208

Hark! how the storm is whistling through the shrouds;
What angry thunders roll along the shore:
Wild, black, and threatening are the broken clouds,
And the fierce storms like hunted tigers roar,
Whilst torrents, biting cold, a constant deluge pour.

Louder, and louder yet the billows roll,
Furious and fierce—ten thousand armies strong!
Lo! like battalions, armed for death, they call,
And madly rush like famish'd wolves along—
Again, and lo, she towers almost the clouds among!

Even like a fiend she struggles with her foe,
Wars with the wave, and wrestles with the storm;
And now, as in despair, she welters low,
Again to rise more giant-like in form,
Whilst ruder swells the blast, more fell the billows swarm.

Alas for them!—is there no arm to save?
See, how they strain each sinew in despair!
That beacon-star but lights them to their grave;
Yon lurid red but aggravates their care,
And pierces through the storm as with a demon's glare.

Morn's dreary dawn but pictures forth their doom—
A taper that will light them to their bier;
The haven, late their trust, will be their tomb;
Their succour farthest when it seems most near—
And Hope itself is turn'd to agony and fear.

209

An image of some beauteous mountain hart,
That swept at morning o'er the hills afar,
The huntsman's shaft has entered near its heart,
It struggles homeward through the tempest's war,
And drops, with straining eyes bent on its dwelling far!

Yon aged man, lo! how he clasps the mast,
And stares in stony terror on the sky;
His white hair streams along the wintry blast,
White as the clouds of spray that o'er him fly;
And, far across the deep swells each despairing cry.

And, lo, that youth!—this cruise his first, his last;
See how the thundering billows o'er him tread!
A few short hours, a mother's tears ran fast
Along that gentle face, now cold and dead—
No more—oh, never more!—the Ocean is his bed!

Thousands are gazing from each cliff and bay:
Lo, how her timbers shiver in the strife.
Can ye not save that ship?—Alas, the day!
As well control the clouds when storms are rife,
Or in the ribs of Death place confidence and life!

One trial—'tis the last—all hope is o'er.
The boat is gone, the blasts more wildly rave:
One shriek from sea and land, 'mid Ocean's roar,
That swells in anguish o'er the howling wave—
'Tis past, that ship is gone—the cavern'd rock her grave.

210

Brave, gallant souls!—Ye never shall behold
The loved, the blest, the cherish'd, the most dear;
Life's cares, life's joys, the memories of old,
The clasping hand, the smile of hope, the tear—
All, all are cold for you, within your stormy bier.

Yet shall they dream of you, though you are gone—
And in the plaining wind your requiem know;
Your dirge be heard in Ocean's hollow moan
At evening, when the sun is sinking low;
And in the Poet's hymn, narrating as he saw!