Sonnet to Dirleton Castle

Time’s giant-arm has laid thy turrets low, No more the archers crowd thy broken wall, Thou ancient castle of the great De Vaux; But thou art fair and mighty in thy fall, Shrouded with ivy, like the chequer’d plaid Of some grim warrior, resting on his shield, Stricken, but not subdued, in battle-field, Above the trees thou rear’st thy lofty head. Where gilded banners stream’d, and bugles sung, Nature, her yellow drapery has flung, And, with the wall-flower, sheds an eastern grace O’er the dark features of thy rugged face. Stern Time! whose touch is sharper than the spear, O spare these turrets ‘midst thy endless waste! That long this tower, like monument, may grace The lands that shine with Nisbet’s chasten’d taste, And charm th’ admiring wanderer lingering near.

THE WRECK OF THE JOHN AND AGNES SLOOP OF NEWCASTLE, AT TYNE SANDS, NEAR DUNBAR, ON THE NIGHT OF SATURDAY THE 9TH NOVEMBER, 1816.

The moon has reach’d her midnight watch in heaven, And veils her pensive face, afraid to view The gathering tempest, while upon my couch, Listening the hollow cadence of the storm, I count the lazy hours; and meditate Upon the sailor’s dark and wayward lot. O ’tis a fearful night for those whose friends Rock on the stormy wave. Winds howl—seas roar! And the lone maid, in weeping solitude, Pines for her lost Palemon on the deep; Who, ‘numb’d with cold, hangs on the pulpy shrouds, And thinks how grateful were his Anna’s arms In such an hour. Then musing Fancy strays To some drear mansion, tott’ring near the beach, Where the wind, howling through the gaping chinks, Startles the babe upon its mother’s breast!— The mother wakes—and closer clasps her husband! Then lisps a prayer of silent thankfulness That he is not a sailor. ’Tis a night Might freeze the stoutest heart. Such was the gale When gallant Beaver, on these iron shores, Beheld his warriors perish, as the day Closed fearful o’er them, and the rough rocks sawed The Fox’s keel asunder; she who braved The fire and triple vengeance of La Hogue, Less dreadful than the storm. Alas! for him Whose bark careers amidst the pathless seas, The sport of winds and waves!—The helmsman bends To shun the spray, sent by the shooting wave, That skims athwart the deck. But hark! loud shouts Come echoing through the streets; and now I hear The car, deep laden, rattling on the causeway; List! was the sound deceitful, fancy-form’d, To agonize the ear?—O, gracious God! Again the shout is heard,—again—again! “A ship’s ashore!” each hoarse loud voice proclaims. And, lo! majestically, along the streets, The life-boat thunders on the trembling wain: Heaven’s delegate! to snatch the mariner From death’s wide-yawning gulf.—A hardy tar, (Who Pythias-like, had nearly barter’d life To save his friend,) had brought the dreadful news Of their disaster. The small vessel lay Grounded upon the spacious sands of Tyne, Near where the river meets the Forth’s embrace Westward of old Dunbar. With bilged stern She, broadside, met the seas, that sounding swept The groaning deck. Her lost sails flutter’d wide In idle rage: so have we often spied The sea-bird dallying on the ocean’s foam. The boatmen gain’d the strand. A shout of joy Came from the fainting crew. The treach’rous sands Awhile had staid their progress,—but not long; For all impediments were swept away Before advent’rous Laing,—the seaman’s friend! The hero of these shores! How oft, Dunbar! Thy sons have seen him, in the darkest hour Of danger, snatch the victim from the wave. And now the life-boat beat the chafing surf Like some tall swan, in sweeping majesty, Then rested by the ship, when, one by one, The solitary remnants of the crew Came leaping in. One hapless sailor hung Suspended from the shrouds, where he was lash’d, In frozen speechlessness that must not break! For all the surgeon’s skill was tried in vain. Another tar, the second in command, Had sought to gain the beach, and luckless sank Into a briny grave.—But where are they For whom our Pythias braved the stormy surge? A brother and a sister he had left Wild clinging to the mast; and barter’d life To save them from destruction. Now, alas! Those lips are mute for ever that had blest him! Those hands are cold that waved a last adieu! For ’midst despairing moments, one dread wave, That swelling rose, burst thundering on the deck, And sent them shrieking to the depths below Ere they could say farewell!—O God! that sight Had mov’d cold apathy. But do not weep, Ye fond relations of this fated crew; For life’s dim page is darkly character’d, And could we with prescient eye divine The wars we have to wage—the storms to buffet!— We’d heave an envious sigh o’er those who rest, Whom death has ransom’d from the ills to come!