A Song: The Lost Merchantman

Dire is the night!—fleet lightnings flash Across the sombre main; The thunders roll; the surges lash; Terrific is the rain: The quiv’ring ship looks straight a-head,— She strives to face the storm,— When lo—the mainmast’s struck, and fled!— Now her dismantled form Reels piteously upon the wave,— She mourns her broken beam; And the poor seaman sees his grave Within the turb’lent cream.

Unhappy ship!—unhappy ship!— Ah! but an hour before Light as a fairy didst thou skip; And merrily on you bore Your burden o’er the field of blue— Trimm’d like a lovely girl— Until the ghastly tempest grew, And all hands ’gan to furl Thy sails, to shun the dread “white squall,”— That most unwelcome guest,— The most portentous foe of all Upon the ocean’s breast.

The minute-gun booms, but in vain; Her ropes shriek in the gale; Alas! her “midship”’s rent in twain: The Captain, he looks pale, And—faltering—sighs, and drops a tear, But brave unto the last: Now, conscious that his end is near, (The ship was sinking fast) Appeals for all to Him on high! His orisons have flown;— “Farewell,” he said to one “hard by,” Then with the ship went down!!!

London, October 2nd, 1865.