The Shipwreck of Camoens

Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky, The sun waxed dim and pale, And the music of the waves was changed To the plaintive voice of wail; And fearfully the lightning flashed Around the ship's tall mast, While mournfully through the creaking shrouds Came the sighing of the blast.

With pallid cheek the seamen shrank Before the deepening gloom; For they gazed on the black and boiling sea As 'twere a yawning tomb; But on the vessel's deck stood one With proud and changeless brow; Nor pain, nor terror was in the look He turned to the gulf below.

And calmly to his arm he bound His casket and his sword; Unheeding, though with fiercer strength The threatening tempest roared; Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried: "For me there yet is hope, The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chain With the stormy wave may cope.

"Now let the strife of nature rage, Proudly I yet can claim, Where'er the waters may bear me on, My freedom and my fame." The dreaded moment came too soon, The sea swept madly on, Till the wall of waters closed around, And the noble ship was gone.

Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry; The swimmer's bubbling breath Was all unheard, while the raging tide Wrought well the task of death; But 'mid the billows still was seen The stranger's struggling form; And the meteor flash of his sword might seem Like a beacon 'mid the storm.

For still, while with his strong right arm He buffeted the wave, The other upheld that treasured prize He would give life to save. Was then the love of pelf so strong That e'en in death's dark hour, The base-born passion could awake With such resistless power?

No! all earth's gold were dross to him, Compared with what lay hid, Through lonely years of changeless woe, Beneath that casket's lid; For there was all the mind's rich wealth, And many a precious gem That, in after years, he hoped might form A poet's diadem.

Nobly he struggled till, o'erspent, His nerveless limbs no more Could bear him on through the waves that rose Like barriers to the shore; Yet still he held his long prized wealth, He saw the wished-for land— A moment more, and he was thrown Upon the rocky strand.

Alas! far better to have died Where the mighty billows roll, Than lived till coldness and neglect Bowed down his haughty soul: Such was his dreary lot, at once His country's pride and shame; For on Camoen's humble grave alone Was placed his wreath of fame.