And there be others struggling with the spite
Of warring elements, whose soul's were bright
To mark, at evening's close, the little space
Which but delayed Affection's bland embrace;
And now they roll the aching eye-ball round
And meet but death—the drowning and the drowned;
Yet fond, fair arms shall yield the clasp they sought-
Yea, wildly clasp-but they shall heed it not!
THE PROGRESS OF THE STORM.
With those that I saw suffer! a brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creatures in her,
Dashed all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perished!
How many now are pondering o'er the lot
Of friends afar!—Unthought of, half forgot,
Till this compassion-waking moment brings
Their image back, with all their sufferings !
The haughty maid recalls the youth she drove
To seek a grave for ill-requited love—
Sees all the worth she would not see before,
And bears in turn the agonies he bore.
A Father brings the outcast boy to mind
His sternness forced to brave the waves and wind;
Alas, too late, compunction wrings his breast,—
His child hath rested-where the weary rest!
Yes, though while present those we loved might err
In many actions though the mind prefer
A stranger at the moment, for some boon
Of nature, chance, or art, which falls in tune
With passing whim—yet, like the butterfly
(Whose wings grow dim with handling) presently
Their gloss is gone; and then our thoughts recall
Worth overlooked, and let each failing fall
To deep oblivion. Yes, the sun that parted
In clouds, will shine when we are softer-hearted;
And absence softens hearts; and time hath power
To clear those clouds which stained a peevish hour ;—
Call recollections from their pensive gloom,
Like kind, but injured spectres from the tomb-
Accusing with their smiles.
The soul to those it loves
"Twould bar reproach.
Oh, this should move
or ought to love!
Yet, 'tis not always fair
To read the bosom through the eye-for there
A sleepless, an untold of worm may lurk,
And do, although it 'plain not, deadly work;
And make men seem unkind to those whom heaven
Hath heard them plead for, when the heart was riven
With its own griefs. If such are breathing, sure
Life lends no joy? —they live not-they endure—
And (were there not a world beyond this scene)
Than thus to be 'twere better not have been!
Flash courses flash! the war-ship's mast is shivered—
Smote by the cloudsped bolt that o'er it quivered!
A broader flame the midnight blackness broke—
Her magazine receives the thunder-stroke,
And fires that vault which stars no longer pave,
As though a SUN were bursting from the wave!
Bewildering, giddy glare! The echoes reel
From cliff to cliff, replying to the peal
That red explosion rang along the sky;
It seemed as if its cloud-voiced potency
Surprised the rocks to utterance! The bay
Heaved liquid flame beneath the sudden day,
Whose dawn was death; and some, who cursed the night,
Hid their pale eyes from that appalling light.
Sped by her star, a gallant ship drew near—
The signal-shot flashed frequent from her tier
She struck, and staggered, in her mid career;
Then, swift as thought, her fragments strewed the spray, As some enchanted castle melts away!
A crowded skiff was labouring for the land—
The wreck they fled drove mastless and unmanned;
Bold the attempt, but fruitless, to elude
The swiftly-rolling billows that pursued.
Their bark had rubbed the sand, but failed to reach
Ere mountain waves broke o'er it on the beach,
And dashed them to the earth:-they rise-they spring-
Vain as the wounded plover's fluttering!
For oh! as if some sea-fiend mocked their toil,
The big wave caught them in its swift recoil.
One youth was left the lightning as it sped
Showed those who baulked the Sea-dog of the dead,—
Fling forth the coil he shivering grasped—and now,
While some shade back the tangle from his brow,
An age-worn man that freezing eye surveys,
Where life late played-alas no longer plays!
Smites his scathed breast and cries (in tones which speak
The heart's last burst of anguish ere it break)—
"How have I sighed to hail thy wanderings done'And meet we thus at last-my son! my son !'
The storm relents not-as the tiger's mood
Becomes blood-thirsty by the taste of blood,
It growls for other victims! Hast thou been
The near spectator of a ship-wreck scene?
Heard the unanswered cry of sore distress,
Marked the strong throes of drowning eagerness,
The body maddened by the spirit's pain,
The wild, wild, working of the breast and brain,
The haggard eye that, horror-widened, sees
Death take the start of sorrow and disease?
For such were heard and seen-so close at hand,
A cable's length had reached them from the land;
Yet farther off than ocean ever bore ;-
Eternity between them and the shore!
Some sought the beach with many a sob and strain,
But felt each sinew fettered by a chain
Which dragged them writhing down: a secret hand
Buoyed others up, and cast them on the land-
Miraculously saved! A few were there
Who prayed with fervent, and confiding prayer-
Alas, too few! The many sti!l would cling
To toil and tears to life and suffering.
And some, whose anguish might not brook to wait
That shunless doom, plunged headlong to their fate;
Yet nature struggled till the last thick gasp;
It was a misery to see them grasp
The sliding waves, and clench the hand, and toil
Like a spent eagle in the whirlwind's coil—
Till dashed against some floating spar or mast,
On Ocean's rocking couch they slept at last.
Pale, panic-struck, the youth falls prostrate-reft
Of senses that had maddened were they left;
The hardened fool, whose life of enterprise
Long verged on death, in drunken frenzy dies;
And helpless woman's wail, upon the wave,
Pleads at the heart which yearns in vain to save.
But there were some, in hopelessness of soul,
Who pined at heart to reach the destined goal;
Yes, long had spurned the load of life, unawed,
But dared not rush, uncalled, before their God;-
Or, haply, pride that trembled at a stain,
Or, haply, love for those they would not pain,
Had moved to give the fatal purpose up—
Unedged the steel, and spilled the poison-cup :
These, bitter days, soul-racking nights had tried-
And scaped, perchance, the curse of suicide.
How like a younker, or a prodigal,
The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,
Hugged and embraced by the strumpet wind!
How like the prodigal doth she return;
With over-weathered ribs, and ragged sails,
Lean, rent, and beggared by the strumpet wind!
AN anxious, lingering, perilous voyage past,
An India ship hailed Albion's land at last!
Moored in the Downs, her mighty pinions close
Like some far flying bird that seeks repose;
While, crowding on the deck, a hundred eyes
Turned shoreward-flashed with pleasure and surprise.
That eve they anchored, from the horizon's hem
The virgin Moon, as if to welcome them,
Rose from her rest-but would no more reveal
Than the faint outline of her pale profile :
Though soon (as maids forego their fears) she gave
Her orbed brow to kiss the wanton wave:
Till-like a scornful lover, swoll'n with pride,
Because too fondly loved to be denied,
The rude wave spurned her off, and raised that loud
And angry blast that screamed through sail and shroud,
The live-long night on which my harp is dwelling.
Meanwhile, the swarthy crew, each care dispelling,
Had sported thrice three summer suns away
Since they had cast their anchor in that bay.
O, none save Fortune's step-sons, doomed to roam
The deep, can prize a harbour and a home!
The temperate breeze their sun-bronzed temples blessing-
A native shore the gladdened eye refreshing—
The painted pinnace dancing from the land
Freighted with friends-the pressure of the hand
Whose pulse throbs happy seconds-the warm gush
Of blood into the cheek, as it would rush
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