BELL OF THE WRECK.

Yet, ne'ertheless, whate'er we owe to thee,
Rover at will on river, lake, and sea,
Dearer to fancy, to the eye more fair,

Are the light skiffs, that, to the breezy air,
Unfurl their swelling sails of snowy hue
Upon the moving lap of ocean blue.

203

As the proud swan on summer lake displays, With plumage brightening in the morning rays, Her fair pavilion of erected wings,

They change, and veer, and turn like living things.

In very truth, compared to these, thou art A daily labourer, a mechanic swart: Beholding thee, the great of other days, And modern men with all their altered ways, Across my mind with hasty transit gleam, Like fleeting shadows of a feverish dream: Fitful I gaze, with adverse humours teazed, Half sad, half proud, half angry, and half pleased.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

BELL OF THE WRECK.

[THE bell of the steamer Atlantic, lost in Long-Island Sound, Nov. 25, 1846, being supported by portions of the wreck and the contiguous rock, continued to toll, swept by wind and surge, the requiem of the dead.]

TOLL, toll, toll,

Thou bell by billows swung,

And night and day thy warning words
Repeat with mournful tongue.

Toll for the queenly boat,
Wrecked on yon rocky shore;
Seaweed is in her palace-halls,
She rides the surge no more!

Toll for the master bold,

The high-souled and the brave, Who ruled her like a thing of life

Amid the crested wave;

Toll for the hardy crew,

Sons of the storm and blast, Who long the tyrant ocean dared, But it vanquished them at last!

Toll for the man of God,

Whose hallowed voice of prayer Rose calm amid the stifled groan Of that intense despair! How precious were those tones On that sad verge of life,

Amid the fierce and freezing storm,

And the mountain-billows' strife!

Toll for the lover lost

To the summoned bridal train! Bright glows a picture on his breast

Beneath the unfathomed main. One from her casement gazeth

Long o'er the misty sea;

BELL OF THE WRECK.

205

He cometh not, pale maiden,

His heart is cold to thee!

Toll for the absent sire,

Who to his home drew near,
To bless a glad expecting group,
Fond wife, and children dear!
They heap the blazing hearth,
The festal board is spread,

But a fearful guest is at the gate—
Room for the sheeted dead!

Toll for the loved and fair,

The whelmed beneath the tide,
The broken harps around whose strings
The dull sea-monsters glide!

Mother and nursling sweet

Reft from the household throng, There's bitter weeping in the nest Where breathed their soul of song.

Toll for the hearts that bleed

'Neath misery's furrowing trace!
Toll for the hapless orphan left,
The last of all his race!
Yea, with thy heaviest knell,

From surge to rocky shore,
Toll for the living, not the dead,

Whose mortal woes are o'er!

Toll, toll, toll,

O'er breeze and billow free,

And with thy startling lore instruct

Each rover of the sea!

Tell how o'er proudest joys

May swift destruction sweep,

And bid him build his hopes on high,

Lone teacher of the deep!

MRS SIGOURNEY.

ON THE LOSS OF THE "FORFARSHIRE" STEAMER.-1838.

THE steamer, o'er unruffled seas,
Swift as the petrel glides,

And neither courts the favouring breeze,
Nor dreads the adverse tides.

How

many yearn, like faithful dove, For home, on board that ship! Hope hears the welcomings of love, And feels the greeting lip.

Frail mortals thus devise their way,
The mind still forward speeds ;
But, oh! the steps of ev'ry day,

A hand, though hidden, leads!

ON THE LOSS OF THE "FORFARSHIRE" STEAMER. 207

The ocean welters in that hand—
Its grasp restrains the winds;

And darkness, like a swaddling band,
Around the world it binds.

The winds increase, as night grows dark,
And rouse the slumbering wave—
To leeward drifts that crippled bark,
No pilot's skill can save!

The bold and timid, old and young,
Seek hope and strength in prayer;
But one amid that suppliant throng
Is yielding to despair.

Had she neglected holy rite,-
To hear, to read, to pray?
Had she alone found no delight
When dawn'd the hallow'd day?

Oh! ill-prepared were such a heart
A sudden death to meet;
And deep its agony to part
With all on earth held sweet!

But, trembling o'er her yawning grave,
Her heart is at her hearth;

She thinks how soon the ruthless wave
Will quench its guileless mirth.