'Twas nightfall—and the stars their pale light threw
Upon the Cortées, and her joyous crew,
Propitious heaven a friendly cool wind gave,
That fanned them gently o'er the silvery wave:
Upon the deck, mingled the gay and young,
In giddy motion—while the pleasant sound,
The lively note of merry music rung
In lightsome echoes, on the water round.
Oh! it is glorious, when on ocean far,
A prosperous crew their jovial revels keep,
Gazing on Beauty 'neath the midnight star,
And dancing on the bosom of the deep.
Amid his mates, thick gather'd round the mast,
The laughing sailor whistles loud, and sings
Of storm, and shipwreck, and strange dangers past,
Of sharks, and crocodile, and all such things
As eat men up at sea—and then anon,
Of Heathen temples, and of Christian domes,
Of Greenland Beauties, in a freezing zone,
And dark-ey'd Donnas, in their sunny homes.
Far from the rest—pensive, and silently,
Mute as a statue, Sobieski stood,
A banish'd Pole—a gallant soldier he,
Of noble aspect, and of noble blood.
It wanted not the aid of tongue to speak,
All Sobieski had been—or was now:
The silent tear, upon his manly cheek,
The thick, deep furrows of his lofty brow,—
His faded lip, his melancholy gaze,
Told the sad history of gone-by days.
And closely by his side a frail girl clung,
The proud Pole's daughter: with a tearless eye,
And pensive smile—upon his arm she hung,
Like some pale being from the distant sky.
A breeze arose—it was a joyous breeze—
And as they hurry through the parting seas,
From highest mast the anxious tars look out:
"Land, land ahead!" the hopeful sailors shout.
It blew a gale—it blew a heavy gale—
With dexterous hand they furl the rattling sail.
A tempest came—against a frightful rock
The Cortées struck—hearts quiver'd with the shock.
"Down with the life-boat,"—'twas a fearful cry;
And oaths, and prayers, went mingling through the sky.
By raging winds and furious breakers lash'd,
'Gainst the tall cliffs again the Cortées dash'd—
On the white waves a scatter'd wreck she lay,
And the wild billows roll'd her mast away.
Slowly, but safe, the crowded life-boat bore
Its precious burden, to the nearing shore—
And as with breathless haste the thankful crew
Leapt on the land, all hands were safe but two;
But two were wanting, two, and two alone,
The Polish Maiden! and the exiled one!
They two had linger'd on the Cortées, till
The hardy Captain, seeing all must fly,
Tore down a light boat; with a dismal cry,
And frantic rush, the slender bark they fill.
For life—for life—the weary sailors row'd.
For life—for life—Oh! 'twas a vain endeavor;
The little skiff o'erburden'd with its load,
Was slowly sinking in the waves forever—
Ah! which of them, with land in sight, could bear
To meet Death thus? Hope makes a coward brave,
And they who might have shudder'd in despair,
Kept fearlessly above the billowy wave—
The dexterous swimmers, reach'd the life-boat's crew,
And Sobieski could have reach'd it too;
But in one arm his terror'd child he bore,
And with the other battled with the sea:
Bravely he toil'd to gain the distant shore;
The rest were there already—only he,
And his wan daughter, with exhausted breath,
Were flying from the watery jaws of Death.
At length, the frenzied Pole beheld the land,
And eager, with a Father's tender hand,
Fondly, he raised Pascobi's drooping head;
She trembled not—her terror all had fled—
The Polish maid was with the fearless dead!
The distant thunder murmur'd through the air,
The lightning gleam'd amid the clouds afar,
The hollow wind went whistling—low, away
On unknown journies. Light, and lovely day
Were brightly dawning on that lonely spot,
Where lay the victim of the direful storm,
So still—so pale—so beautiful—with not
An eye to weep for her. In holy calm,
And silent grief, her sire was kneeling by—
Pascobi slept, as free from care as pain—
And 'twere a sin that e'en a father's sigh
Should wake that daughter into life again.
Once, Sobieski under Poland's sun
Had proudly lorded over lands his own—
And now, his Spirit could not stoop to ask
A Stranger to bestow on him a grave—
He took his pale child, 'twas a bitter task,
And buried her beneath the quiet wave. |