 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
54
THE SCHOONER.
I
The misty sun sank fastO'er the long and gloomy main,
And the hollow moaning blast
Swept like a burial strain.
II
Yet swift the vessel flew,In the spirit of her pride;
And the surges dashed like dew
From her bold, majestic side!
III
The dim horizon shedA thin and sickly ray;
The dull, black vapours spread
Like a pall along her way.
IV
Yet lovely 'midst the storm—As a rainbow on the deep—
Did the Schooner's stately form
O'er the bursting billows sweep!
55
V
Blacker and blacker setThe wild, portentous night;
The winds and waters met,
Like demons in their might.
VI
The tempest rode the main,With death-denouncing speed;
And the giant mast was snapt in twain,
As a child would break a reed!
VII
Then paler fell the cheek—And dimmer grew the sight—
And lips that wished, yet dared not speak,
Turned cold and ghastly white.
VIII
On—on the vessel ran,—Trembling, and wild, and bare—
The skill and strength of man
Were dust upon the air.
IX
On—on the vessel burst—No helm—no cheering ray—
Like a dying thing accurst,
She held her dreadful way!
56
X
The breakers girt her round;One fierce wild shout of fear—
And the roaring waves were the only sound
That reached the landsman's ear!
XI
'Twas a blue and moonlight night,With a mild and shoreward breeze;
When a lonely wreck hove first in sight,
On the far Ægean seas.
XII
No signal sound aroseFrom the solitary deck;
She seem'd alone amidst her foes—
That miserable wreck!
XIII
From helm to prow no soundOf living thing was there;—
Some gallant crew a grave had found,
Unblest by earthly prayer!
XIV
Deep silence reigned above;But, ah!—the berth below
Displayed a scene of human love—
A scene of human wo!
57
XV
The beautiful—alas!—The bright—the better flower
Is ever thus the first to pass
From Love's domestic bower!
XVI
A youth, in sickness deep,Lay breathing weak and low,
As soon the everlasting sleep
Would settle on his brow.
XVII
And there—in all the prideOf early bloom and grace,
A fair-haired girl knelt by his side,
With meekly beauteous face.
XVIII
With blue, beseeching eyes,In stedfast hope upraised!—
She seemed a sister of the skies,—
So holy was that gaze!
XIX
And smote the hand of DeathThus mildly in its might?
Lived there on that sweet lip no breath—
In those blue eyes no light?
58
XX
Oh! lovely and not dark,Death, is thy mild decay,
When the immortal spark
Yet radiates our clay!
XXI
A gleam of daylight set,May gild the cloud of eve;
And the soul's light linger yet
O'er the form it sighed to leave!
XXII
Serene she knelt in death,Beside the sufferer's bed;
The youth lay warm with life's free breath!—
The weary watcher dead!
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