Where huge Sarpedon lies, and Hector brave
Fell by Achilles' sword; where Simoïs' wave
Rolls the plumed helmet, and the studded shield,
And heroes' bodies, from the glorious field?"
With him, thus mourning, stormy Boreas wars,
Takes him aback, and heaves him to the stars!
No more the prow bears up, but yields the side
With shattered oars to the infuriate tide.
Some, the huge mount of broken water rears—
To some, the sand between the waves appears-
Three, seized by Notus, feel the dreadful shocks
Of reefs, th' Italians call the Altar Rocks;
Three, Eurus casts from ocean to the strand,
Dashes on shoals, and girds with mounds of sand.
Over the bark that bears Orontes brave,
And his bold Lycians, curls a monstrous wave,
Bursts on her poop, and, with resistless sweep,
Plunges the pilot headlong in the deep.
There thrice the circling billow whirls her round,
And the swift vortex sucks to depths profound.
Now here now there-the scattered crews emerge,
And breast the buffets of the whirling surge;
Then broken planks, armour, and heroes brave,
With Trojan treasures, drift along the wave.
The ships of Ilioneus and Abas bold,
Of brave Achates, and Alethes old,
The storm o'erwhelmed; wide gape their shattered sides,
And yawning seams receive the hostile tides.
AND now, lashed on by destiny severe,
With horror fraught the dreadful scene draws near!
The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death,
Deeps yawn, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath!
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies,
Her shattered top half-buried in the skies;
Then, headlong plunging, thunders on the ground:
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps re-
Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels,
And, quivering with the wound, in torment reels.
Again she plunges! hark! a second shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock!
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes
In wild despair, while yet another stroke,
With deep convulsions, rends the solid rock;
Till, like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn, her frame divides,
And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides.
As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast hung
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung.
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast,
And there by oozy tangles grappled fast:
THE WRECK OF THE ROYAL GEORGE." 185
Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' rage,
Unequal combat with their fate to wage;
Till all benumbed and feeble they forego
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below.
Some, from the mainyard-arm impetuous thrown
On marble ridges, die without a groan.
Three with Palemon on their skill depend,
And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend.
Now on the mountain-wave on high they ride;
Then downward plunge beneath the involving tide.
Till one, who seems in agony to strive,
The whirling breakers heave on shore alive.
The rest a speedier end of anguish knew,
And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless crew!
THE WRECK OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE.”
TOLL for the brave!
The brave that are no more!
All sank beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.
A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock:
His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,
Full-charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main:
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
THE WRECK OF THE "WHITE SHIP."
[WILLIAM, son of Henry I., together with a hundred and forty of the young nobility of Normandy and England, including eighteen ladies of the first rank, and, with their retinue and the crew, amounting to three hundred persons, embarked from Barfleur for England, in one of the finest vessels of the fleet, a galley of fifty oars, called the "White Ship." The prince imprudently ordered three casks of wine to be distributed among the men, when captain and sailors drank too freely. The fearful consequences are powerfully described in the following extract.]
Henry. (to the Mariner.) Speak, and be bold: stand not in breathless awe;
There is no greatness in a sonless king.
Mariner. 'Tis grief, not fear. Last night the crescent moon
Looked down on a calm deep without a wave,
Doubtful of which was heaven and which was sca:
On the smooth water glided the White Ship,
With mirth and music filling all the air-
My lord the Prince, and Countess de la Perche
Henry. My Marie too!-proceed—
Mariner. Headed the band
Of knights and noble ladies in the dance;
Goblets went round, and from the fiery lip
Of passion gushed, at times, the stream of song.
Seated in groups, hiding them from the moon
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