O, broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friendOh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst leap within the sea! Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; H. W. LONGFELLOW. And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes, as the lairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. And watched how the veering flaw did blow Then up and spake an old sailor, "Last night the moon had a golden ring, The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, Colder and louder blew the wind, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed, "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "O, father! 1 hear the church-bells ring, Oh, say, what may it be?" ""Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" And he steered for the open sea. "O, father! I hear the sound of guns, Oh, say, what may it be?" 165 Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, The lantern gleamed through the glancing snow Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, And ever the fitful gusts between The breakers were right beneath her bows, And a whooping billow swept the crew, She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side, Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, THE MAN OF ROSS. Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, Christ, save us all from a death like this, THE MAN OF ROSS. ALEXANDER POPE. -ALL our praises why should lords engross ? But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise? 167 Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blessed, Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives. Baulked are the courts, and contest is no more. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, And what! no monument, inscription, stone? NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK. Ho! ye who at the anvil toil, And strike the sounding blow, Where from the burning iron's breast While answering to the hammer's ring, And fire's intenser glow Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil To have no work to do. C. F.ORNE. |