DECEMBER 22.
About three years ago the Captain had the ill luck to be captured by a French frigate. As she had already made prizes of two other merchantmen, it was determined to sink his ship; which, after removing the crew and every thing in her that was valuable, was effected by firing her own guns down the hatchways. It was near three hours before she filled, then down she went with a single plunge, head foremost, with all her sails set and colours flying. This display of the ship’s magnificence in her last moments reminded me of Mary Queen of Scots, arraying herself in her richest robes that she might go to the scaffold. If Yorick had fallen in with this anecdote in the course of his journey, the situation of the Captain, standing on the enemy’s deck, and seeing his “brave vessel” in full and gallant trim, possessing all the abilities for a long existence, yet abandoned by every one, and sinking from the effect of her own shot, might have furnished him with a companion for his old commercial Marquis, lamenting over the rust of his newly recovered sword.
DECEMBER 23.
THE DOLPHIN.
Does then the insatiate sea relent?
And hath he back those treasures sent,
His stormy rage devoured?
All starred with gems the billows bound,
And emeralds, jacinths, sapphires round
The bark in spray are showered.
No, no! ’t is there the Dolphin plays;
His scales, enriched with sunny rays,
Celestial tints unfold;
And as he darts, the waters blue
Are streaked with gleams of many a hue,
Green, orange, purple, gold!
And brighter still will shine your skin,
Poor fish, more dazzling play each fin,
On deck when dying cast;
Like good men, who, expiring, bless
The Power that calls them, all confess
Your brightest hour your last.
And now the Spearman watchful stands!
The five-pronged grainse, which arms his hands,
Your scales is doomed to gore;
The lead will sink, and soon on high,
Borne from the deep, perforce you’ll fly,
Nor e’er regain it more.
Weep, Beauty, weep! those vivid dyes,
Those splendours, but the harpooner’s eyes
To strike his victim call!
Ambition, mark the Dolphin’s close—
To dangerous heights he only rose
To find the heavier fall!
Mark, too, ye witty, rich, and gay,
How quick those sportive fins could play,
How gay, how rich was he!
He moves no more—he’s cold to touch—
He’s dull—dark—dead! The Dolphin’s such,
And such we all must be!
There is a technical fault in the above lines: the grainse, or dolphin-spear, has five barbs; but the harpooner never uses a lance with more than a single point. However, the word was so agreeable to my ear, that I could not find in my heart to leave it out.