THE ISLE OF PALMS.

CANTO SECOND.

O Heavenly Queen! by Mariners beloved!
Refulgent Moon! when in the cruel sea
Down sank yon fair Ship to her coral grave,
Where didst thou linger then? Sure it behoved
A Spirit strong and pitiful like thee
At that dread hour thy worshippers to save;
Nor let the glory where thy tenderest light,
Forsaking even the clouds, with pleasure lay,
Pass, like a cloud which none deplores, away,
No more to bless the empire of the Night.
How oft to thee have home-sick sailors pour'd
Upon their midnight-watch, no longer dull
When thou didst smile, hymns wild and beautiful,
Worthy the radiant Angel they adored!
And are such hymnings breathed to thee in vain?
Gleam'st thou, as if delighted with the strain,
And won by it the pious bark to keep
In joy for ever?—till at once behind
A cloud thou sailest,—and a roaring wind
Hath sunk her in the deep!
Or, though the zephyr scarcely blow,
Down to the bottom must she go
With all who wake or sleep,
Ere the slumberer from his dream can start,
Or the hymn hath left the singer's heart!
Oh! sure, if ever mortal prayer
Were heard where thou and thy sweet stars abide,
So many gallant spirits had not died
Thus mournfully in beauty and in prime!
But from the sky had shone an arm sublime,
To bless the worship of that Virgin fair,
And, only seen by Faith's uplifted eye,
The wretched vessel gently drifted by
The fatal rock, and to the crowded shore
In triumph and in pride th' expected glory bore.

Oh vain belief! most beauteous as thou art,
Thy heavenly visage hides a cruel heart.
When Death and Danger, Terror and Dismay,
Are madly struggling on the dismal Ocean,
With heedless smile and calm unalter'd motion,
Onward thou glidest through the milky way,
Nor, in thy own immortal beauty blest,
Hear'st dying mortals rave themselves to rest.
Yet when this night thou mount'st thy starry throne,
Brightening to sun-like glory in thy bliss,
Wilt thou not then thy once-loved Vessel miss,
And wish her happy, now that she is gone?
But then, sad Moon! too late thy grief will be,
Fair as thou art, thou canst not move the sea.
—Dear God! Was that wild sound a human cry,
The voice of one more loath to die
Than they who round him sleep?
Or of a Spirit in the sky,
A Demon in the deep?
No sea-bird, through the darkness sailing,
E'er utter'd such a doleful wailing,
Foreboding the near blast:
If from a living thing it came,
It sure must have a spectral frame,
And soon its soul must part:—
That groan broke from a bursting heart,
The bitterest and the last.

The Figure moves! It is alive!
None but its wretched self survive,
Yea! drown'd are all the crew!
Ghosts are they underneath the wave,
And he, whom Ocean deign'd to save,
Stands there most ghost-like too.
Alone upon a rock he stands
Amid the waves, and wrings his hands,
And lifts to Heaven his steadfast eye,
With a wild upbraiding agony.
He sends his soul through the lonesome air
To God:—but God hears not his prayer;
For, soon as his words from the wretch depart,
Cold they return on his baffled heart.
He flings himself down on his rocky tomb,
And madly laughs at his horrible doom.
With smiles the Main is overspread,
As if in mockery of the dead;
And upward when he turns his sight,
The unfeeling Sun is shining bright,
And strikes him with a sickening light.
While a fainting-fit his soul bedims,
He thinks that a Ship before him swims,
A gallant Ship, all fill'd with gales,
One radiant gleam of snowy sails—
His senses return, and he looks in vain
O'er the empty silence of the Main!
No Ship is there, with radiant gleam,
Whose shadow sail'd throughout his dream:
Not even one rueful plank is seen
To tell that a vessel hath ever been
Beneath these lonely skies:
But sea-birds he oft had seen before
Following the ship in hush or roar,
The loss of their resting-mast deplore
With wild and dreary cries.

What brought him here he cannot tell;
Doubt and confusion darken all his soul,
While glimmering truth more dreadful makes the gloom:
Why hath the Ocean that black hideous swell?
And in his ears why doth that dismal toll
For ever sound,—as if a city-bell
Wail'd for a funeral passing to the tomb?
Some one hath died, and buried is this day;
A hoary-headed man, or stripling gay,
Or haply some sweet maid, who was a bride,
And, ere her head upon his bosom lay
Who deem'd her all his own,—the Virgin died!
Why starts the wilder'd dreamer at the sound,
And casts his haggard eyes around?
The utter agony hath seized him now,
For Memory drives him, like a slave, to know
What Madness would conceal:—His own dear Maid,
She, who he thought could never die, is dead.
"Drown'd!"—still the breaking billows mutter,—"drown'd!"
With anguish loud was her death-bed!
Nor e'er,—wild wish of utmost woe!
Shall her sweet corse be found.
Oft had he sworn with faithless breath,
That his love for the Maid was strong as death,
By the holy Sun he sware;
The Sun upon the Ocean smiles,
And, with a sudden gleam, reviles
His vows as light as air.
Yet soon he flings, with a sudden start,
That gnawing phrenzy from his heart,
For long in sooth he strove,
When the waters were booming in his brain,
And his life was clogg'd with a sickening pain,
To save his lady-love.

How long it seems since that dear night,
When gazing on the wan moonlight
He and his own betrothed stood,
Nor fear'd the harmless ocean-flood!
He feels as if many and many a day,
Since that bright hour, had pass'd away;
The dim remembrance of some joy
In which he revell'd when a boy.
The crew's dumb misery and his own,
When lingeringly the ship went down,
Even like some mournful tale appears,
By wandering sailor told in other years.
Yet still he knows that this is all delusion,
For how could he for months and years have lain
A wretched thing upon the cruel Main,
Calm though it seem to be? Would gracious Heaven
Set free his spirit from this dread confusion,
Oh, how devoutly would his thanks be given
To Jesus ere he died! But tortured so
He dare not pray beneath his weight of wo,
Lest he should feel, when about to die,
By God deserted utterly.
He cannot die: Though he longs for death,
Stronger and stronger grows his breath,
And hopeless woe the spring of being feeds;
He faints not, though his knell seems rung,
But lives, as if to life he clung,
And stronger as he bleeds.
He calls upon the grisly Power,
And every moment, every hour,
His sable banners wave;
But he comes not in his mortal wrath,
And long and dreary is the path
Of anguish to the grave.