The Lost Drave of Dunbar

Soft blew the gales of autumn on thy cliffs, Dunbar! and fann’d the beauteous glowing Forth, While vessels bounded o’er the spangled waves, And shoals of herrings skimm’d below the keels, Like silver fishes ’neath the crystal floor Of eastern palaces, when prosperous years Had brought a vast assemblage to thy shores From Holland and the Isles: a greedy race, Who riches sought despite of God and man, And lured thy sons to death with tenfold horror! On Sabbath morn, the church’s early bell Call’d pious men to solemn deeds of prayer, When the ungodly fishers launch’d their drave Upon the shining sea. A thousand boats Spread their brown oars, and darken’d all the strand, As when the Indian chiefs, in fierce canoes, Come forth to battle;—and ’twas sad to see The fishers cast their black nets in the brine, While godly men were journeying to church. Out spake the zealous priest, with warning voice, Against such mark’d and foul contempt of God, And his most blessed holy ordinances; But, mocking the old man, they turn’d away Their ears from his rebuke, while some exclaim’d, “Delays are dangerous,” others: “We make hay “In sunshine;” thus, in vulgar witticisms, They sneer’d at the good man’s prophetic words. That morning’s calm was like the meteor’s glare, That dazzles to destroy its wareless victim; For when the boatmen, at night’s lonely hour, Return’d to draw their nets, loud roar’d the gale, As if from Greenland’s cold unfathom’d caves Winter had come with all his host of storms. The seaman’s face turn’d pale, as boats on boats Rush’d fearfully o’er yawning vortices; While, like a monster, lash’d the sea around, Now gorging and next vomiting her prey, And shoals of scaly fry, sheer upward thrown, Came down like sheeted hail upon the decks! Prows split on prows—the splinter’d oars were slipt; And shiver’d sails flew from the shatter’d masts In dread confusion, as when horror stalks Amid the thunder of the British line! Despairing groans and bursting hearts were there, And parting spirits spoke most horrid things, Lisping the name of Jesus!—others plunged, Breasting the roaring wave, and swearing sank Into the dark abyss, while shadowy forms Rung words of dreadful import in their ears!— But, chief amid the demons of the storm, High soar’d, pre-eminent, the Witch of Keith, Clear seen by her own lightnings, as she strode The quivering mast, and trill’d this wayward song: