The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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THE WRECK. |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
THE WRECK.
All night the booming minute-gun
Had peal'd along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
A barque from India's coral strand,
Before the raging blast,
Had vail'd her topsails to the sand,
And bow'd her noble mast.
Had peal'd along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
A barque from India's coral strand,
Before the raging blast,
Had vail'd her topsails to the sand,
And bow'd her noble mast.
The queenly ship!—brave hearts had striven,
And true ones died with her!—
We saw her mighty cable riven,
Like floating gossamer.
We saw her proud flag struck that morn,
A star once o'er the seas—
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn—
And sadder things than these!
And true ones died with her!—
We saw her mighty cable riven,
Like floating gossamer.
We saw her proud flag struck that morn,
A star once o'er the seas—
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn—
And sadder things than these!
We saw her treasures cast away,—
The rocks with pearls were sown,
And strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flash'd out o'er fretted stone.
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze;
And gorgeous robes—but oh! that shore
Had sadder things than these!
The rocks with pearls were sown,
And strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flash'd out o'er fretted stone.
173
Like ashes by a breeze;
And gorgeous robes—but oh! that shore
Had sadder things than these!
We saw the strong man still and low,
A crush'd reed thrown aside;
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died.
And near him on the sea-weed lay—
Till then we had not wept—
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept!
A crush'd reed thrown aside;
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died.
And near him on the sea-weed lay—
Till then we had not wept—
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept!
For her pale arms a babe had press'd
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp.
Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child's form,
Where still their wet long streamers hung
All tangled by the storm.
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp.
Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child's form,
Where still their wet long streamers hung
All tangled by the storm.
And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene,
Gleam'd up the boy's dead face,
Like slumber's, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.
Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet-eye—
He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony!
Gleam'd up the boy's dead face,
Like slumber's, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.
Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet-eye—
He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony!
174
Oh! human love, whose yearning heart
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu—
Surely thou hast another lot:
There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, rememb'ring not
The moaning of the sea!
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu—
Surely thou hast another lot:
There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, rememb'ring not
The moaning of the sea!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |