The Homeward-bound Passenger Ship

Refulgent ’rose day’s harbinger, And lit with joy the azure space; The good ship glided gently o’er The ocean’s undulating face:

And on she goes, she ploughs the deep With seeming skilfulness and love; Her inmates gather out from sleep,— Some send their orisons above:

While others,—thoughtless of the hour, When it is meet to bend the knee,— Begarb themselves, display their pow’r, And revel on, as yesterday.

The cabin deck-light pane is bright, Which tells them ’tis a cheery morn; (They do not dream—that ere ’tis night, Not even one shall live to mourn! * * *)

Good Zephyrus speeds the ship along, She heeds it—lovingly she bows; The sailors raise their bowline-song, And smiles adorn their iron brows.

All’s well, and everything goes meet, The fleecy clouds, in sport above, Afford an ocean scene so sweet— It tempers friendship into love.

The decks are wash’d, the breakfast-meal Is past, the passengers look gay; Some pace the quarter-deck, and feel Desirous to prolong their stay.

A few are lounging o’er the poop, To see the log-line, out or in; While on the forecastle’s a group, Perhaps discoursing on the scene.

Mid-ships—some little children, there, Dight the clean deck in playful mood; While mothers hail them to repair Below, to take their mid-day food.

So “pleased as Punch” away they run; On Bobby’s back his brother rides; Dear little Susan loves the fun, And laughs enough to split her sides.

’Tween-decks, are now in dinner-trim, The frugal meal is well pursued; And not a cloud had yet made dim The deck-light pane, above them view’d.

Sol now hath reach’d his highest point, The captain marks its altitude; The beauteous orb’s full golden front Gives to the seaman—latitude.

The chart is traced, the captain smiles; The rippling wavelets fly apace; And all is well; Time thus beguiles, For joy appears in every face.

The cabin-passengers partake Their sumptuous fare, unlimited; Out flies the cork! they freely slake, And thus their meal is finished.

Down yonder hatchway, in the shade, The dice or cards are nimbly dealt; While those who move them oft degrade Themselves by adding sin to guilt.

Whilst farther aft, in best of hope, A group seem pompous o’er their gain; They saffron liquid freely tope, And whisk the bottles in the main.

The miser counts his money o’er, Then locks again his little trunk: The spendthrift, as the day before, Flies to the bottle and gets drunk.

Here, there is one hums out a tune; And there, another fain would sleep: (They little think, ere morrow’s noon All, all would have to plumb the deep.)

Young wives, with rosy faces, trip— Sing tunefully as they go by— Towards the galley of the ship, To boil, to broil, to bake, or fry,

Some little dainty—eggs, or ham, An omèlet, or such rarities As tarts composed with currant-jam, In readiness towards their teas.

(Oh! had they known it was the last Their beaming eyes would ever see; Oh, had they known this one repast, Preceded their eternity!—

Oh! had they known what sighs and sobs, What streams of tears would sadly flit, What beating breasts, what aching throbs, And how the sturdiest brow would knit—

They would have stagger’d on the deck! They would have shudder’d at their fate! Instead of tripping by so quick, Intent upon the dish or plate.

Yea—e’en the pen that writes it down, Doth falter at the dismal thought— That ere the sun, which lovely shone, Had ’rose again, the wreck was wrought!)

But whilst within the galley, lo!— A rather sudden lurch ’tervenes, A little spray hops o’er her prow, And all is not so well, it seems.

Nay, more: a gloom pervades the deck; The air is cool; the sky’s o’ercast; The ship’s smooth course receives a check; The sturdy seamen scale the mast.

The captain scans the ruffled zone, And heeds the wind’s increasing scope; He knows full well, and reckons on His seamanship, but God’s his hope.

An angry-looking cloud appears, Extends, and fast obscures the sky; The timid, nay, the stout heart fears A storm’s approaching, that ’tis nigh.

The beautiful and sun-lit main, Which greeted all at early morn, Is dight with sullen clouds, and rain; (Already is a jib-sail torn.)

The whistling wind seems full of woe— The roy’l-top-gallant yard is broke; The boatswain calls aloud, “Let go!” And ere another word is spoke,

A sea hath struck hard on her port; The gale increases fearfully; For safety now the crew resort, And fasten down the main-hatchway.

The first dread peal of thunder rolls; And loud, and louder shrieks the wind; The captain, through his trumpet, calls— “Make fast the spanker-boom, behind.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” is the pert reply, As readily it is obey’d; While some below prepare to die On bended knee, with lifted head.

The sweating helmsmen try, in vain, To guide her through the troubled sea; And as she pitches in the main, They labour on incessantly.

Stripp’d of her gayest canvas clothes She seems undone, yet faileth not (Though turbulently toss’d) like those Who to their sleeping berths have got.

She willingly doth brave the storm: But now the elements conspire,— The lightning flits in hideous form, And tints the ship with ghostly fire!

The thunders clap with horrid din, The minute-guns their storm-cries send; The fearful shrieking hurricane Her foretop-gallant mast doth rend!

Sea after sea, leaps o’er her bows; Sail after sail, are torn in shreds;— The angry trough more angry grows, And would-be sleepers fly their beds!

Confusion reigns above, below,— And Jews and Gentiles fear the Lord,— Yea, strong men seem as children now, And strive to utter forth the word.

The boats are lower’d in dreadful haste; But ’tis too late,—for, one by one, The merc’less ocean lays them waste; And fruitless is the minute-gun.

At last the captain, in despair, Exhorts the passengers t’attend Unto his last few words of prayer,— To meet their ’nevitable end!

In every feature death is seen, In every gesture dire dismay, For now the seas are stoving in The starboard, gunwale, and gangway.

For hours the pumps in vain were mann’d, As tenfold did the waters rise; The pumpers frenzically scann’d * * * And some, unnerv’d, betear’d their eyes.

(My muse doth falter to go on, But on I must, so on I write,— Though tears are all but trickling down, As I bewail that mournful night.)

Then mothers, with their infants, cry And pray, if ne’er before they pray’d; And those that knew not how, now try: But in an instant all is said!—

The ship hath rent herself in twain: A hundred shrieks, and all is lost! Now, now the furious raging main Engulfs the overwhelmèd host.

And not a single craft at hand To witness, or to render aid? * * * (Read on, if thou canst understand The dreadful havoc that was made.)

The day before, the sailors’ song Rang merrily upon the ear; Sweet infants to their mothers clung, And fathers did their children cheer.

The night before, the mainmast-truck Strain’d lovingly the courter’s eye; Though lack’d it inland flowers to pluck, The spangled stars flow’rèd the sky.

The good moon took her wonted tour Along an almost cloudless sky; Round roll’d the planets as of yore, And all was pleasant to the eye.

Yes, all was pleasant to the eye To see the myriad wavelets play, Or frolic, as it were, so coy Upon the moon’s expansive ray.

Ah! then she furrow’d the green sea, And toss’d the phosphorescent spray, As on she glided merrily Along th’ unfathomable way.

Next (as the muse described before)— Refulgent ’rose day’s harbinger; A prosperous voyage seem’d in store For passenger and mariner.

The Ocean donn’d its garb of green, And every little wave that rose Enhanc’d the beauty of the scene; And here and there did birds repose.

They watch’d the vessel’s onward course; The refuse crumbs to them were bliss: Although its particles were coarse,— They peck, and deem’d it not amiss,

(Oh! would that vessel ’d been a bird, To ’ve flown beyond the gale’s dread scope, And then to ’ve dropp’d again unheard, Again sail’d on with former hope.)

They saw the ship, dismantled, sink, And ’lighted on the floating wreck:— Yea, on the whirlpool’s ghastly brink, They mock’d the dying on the deck,

(Saw they, alone, the craft divide— Save Him, in heaven, whose unknown way Sets men’s poor handiworks aside, And summons them t’eternity!)

And on the foaming billows lept With bird-like similè of joy; Thereon they swung, thereon they slept, Until the next returning day.

Then, while the sun, swol’n round and red, Was garnishing the lolling sea, Uprose the albatross and fed, (And fed, I ween, luxuriously,)—

Perch’d on a barrel, block, or spar, An upset boat, a riven mast, A rope, that shone afresh with tar, Which yielded to th’ unerring blast.

Or on, methinks, a sailor’s trunk (Ransack’d in haste for some lov’d thing), The bottle which, perhaps, got drunk Him who was last to laugh and sing,—

Unwilling to believe his soul Would vanish with another breath, Beyond the influence of the bowl, Into th’ eternal gulf of death!

(O God, forbid that such an one Should breathe his last in such a state! Or ever an unholy son Inebriately should meet death’s fate.)

Look, look ye down the plumbless deep, See, if ye can, their lifeless forms!— Here laid, poor things! across a steep, An infant in its mother’s arms;

There, it may be, a man and wife (Embracing either now as when They went to rest at night, in life), Are resting in a turbid glen;

And here a damsel, once so fair, A smile still lurking on her cheek, But now across that cheek her hair Is floating wildly in a creek;

There, laid a stripling, great in build, A leathern girdle’s round his loins, In which a pocket’s nearly fill’d With sundry gold and silver coins.

Oh! could we see the ocean’s bed, (Strewn o’er, no doubt, with mangled bones, And where there are no bones, instead Lie gems of rare and precious stones—

Jewels of value set in gold, And gold engraved by skilful hands, With marks of friendship on them told, Near ’bliterated by the sands,)

Our sorrow would vent out in tears; Nay, should we not, think, shun the sight,— To see more than a thousand years Of dismal relics prone to light? * * *

Now in the morn, when all was o’er, And heaven reveal’d the glorious sun— When the dire tempest roar’d no more, And all those leaden clouds were gone—

It chanc’d the ocean’s limpid breast Bore on and on a minor craft, From head to foot garb’d in her best, And meetly trimm’d afore and aft.

Observant did her seamen see (What prov’d, indeed, too true a sign:) A splinter’d wreck of the Dundee— (Ah! once a “clipper” of the “line”)—

On which they read the name in full, And grasp’d it as it hugg’d the side; For then the zephyrs seem’d to lull Expressly to obey the tide.

This cast a sudden gloom on board, A sort of stupor seiz’d the crew; They solv’d the mystery in a word— She’s lost! Then farther on they view

The drifting particles of woe, Strewn o’er the now peace-waving main. Confirming what they sadly knew— “That she would never sail again!”