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 bark 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!
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!
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!
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.
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,
Naught of her agony!
O 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!
THE TRUMPET.[334]
The trumpet’s voice hath roused the land—
Light up the beacon pyre!
A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire.
A hundred banners to the breeze
Their gorgeous folds have cast—
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past.
The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth.
The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye—
They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.
The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;
E’en, for the marriage altar crown’d,
The lover quits his bride.
And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread!—
How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?
[334] “We cannot refrain quoting another poem by the same distinguished writer. It has something sublime.”—Blackwood’s Magazine, Jan. 1826.