An hour bedre her feath:
And ages of home with sigis fisturbel
The seepers long-drawn bread.
Instead of the murmur of the sex.
The sailor heart he humming tree
Alive trough al is lerves.
The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his orage-door,
And the swallow's song in the eaves.
His arms enclosed a biccming bey,
Who Istened with tears of sorrow and joy
To the dangers his father had passed;
And his wife-by turns she wept and smiled,
As she locked on the father of her child
Returned to her at last.-
He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.-
Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;
The Ship hath melted quite away,
Like a struggling dream at break of day.
No image meets my wandering eye
But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky.
Though the night shades are gone, yet a vapour dull
Bedims the waves so beautiful;
While a low and melancholy moan
Mourns for the glory that hath flown.
LL night the booming minute-gun
Had pealed along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Looked o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark, from India's coral strand,
Before the rushing blast,
Had veiled her topsails to the sand,
And bowed her noble mast.
The queenly Ship!-brave hearts have striven,
And true ones died within 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 helm beat down, 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
Flashed 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 sights than these!
We saw the strong man, still and low,
A crushed 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 pressed*
With such a writhing grasp,
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp !
The circumstance is related of Mrs. Cargill, an actress of' some celebrity, who was shipwrecked on the rocks of Scilly, when returning from India
Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the child's fair form,
Where still their wet, long streamers clung,
All tangled by the storm.
And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene,
Gleamed 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 !
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, remembering not
The moaning of the sea!
A BOAT RACE-AND WRECK OF A BOAT.
NE gusty day, now stormy and now still,
I stood apart upon the western hill,
And saw a race at sea: a gun was heard,
And two contending boats at length appeared:
Equal awhile; then one was left behind,
And for a moment had her chance resigned,
When in that moment, up a sail they drew
Not used before-their rivals to pursue.
Strong was the gale! in hurry now there came
Men from the town, their thoughts, their fears the
And women too! affrighted maids and wives,
All deeply feeling for their sailors' lives.
The strife continued: in a glass we saw
The desperate efforts, and we stood in awe,
When the last boat shot suddenly before,
Then filled, and sank-and could be seen no more!
Then were those piercing shrieks, that frantic flight,
All hurried! all in tumult and affright!
A gathering crowd from different streets drew near;
All ask, all answer-none attend, none hear!
One boat is safe; and see! she backs her sail
To save the sinking-Will her care avail?
Oh! how impatient on the sands we tread,
And the winds roaring, and the women led,
As up and down they pace with frantic air,
And scorn a comforter, and will despair;
They know not who in either boat is gone,
But think the father, husband, lover, one.
And who is she apart? She dares not come
To join the crowd, yet cannot rest at home:
With what strong interest looks she at the waves,
Meeting and clashing o'er the seamen's graves!
'Tis a poor girl betrothed—a few hours more,
And he will be a corpse upon the shore.
AST thou not marked, when o'er thy startled head
Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has rolled,
How, when its echoes fell, a silence dead
Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the wold?
The rye-grass shakes not on the sod-built fold,
The rustling aspen-leaves are mute and still,
The wall-flower waves not on the ruined hold,
Till, murmuring distant first, then near and shrill,
The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps the groaning hill
ITH trembling faith, with breathless prayer
I on my God relied,
As billow unto billow called,
And deep to deep replied.
Now rose we, like a leaf, on high;
Now touched the solid ground;
While each pale seaman gazed on each,
In moveless horror bound.
Then heartfelt cries were raised to heaven,
Undrowned by ocean's roar;
And they for mercy loudly prayed
Who never prayed before.
And Mercy spake in low, small voice, —
"Ye waters, peace, be still!"
And billows sunk, and winds were hushed,
Obedient to her will.
And now one wide expanse of green,
Save where a silvery light
Of moonlight marked the angel's path
Who guarded us by night.
O happy hour, when all the storms
Of earth shall silent be,
And our glad souls beyond those stars
Shall mount, O Lord, to thee!
EVENING CALM ON THE LAKE OF GENEVA
LEAR, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wide world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
|