THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS Ir was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr, Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailòr, 66 pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. "Last night the moon had a golden ring, Colder and louder blew the wind, Down came the storm, and smote amain She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, VOL. I. C "Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, He cut a rope from a broken spar, 66 And bound her to the mast. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say what may it be?" 66 "Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"- "O father! I hear the sound of guns, "O father, I see a gleaming light, But the father answered never a word, Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf, The breakers were right beneath her bows, And a whooping billow swept the crew She struck where the white and fleecy waves But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, At daybreak, on a bleak sea-beach, The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow; Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! POEMS ON SLAVERY 1842 [The following Poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING THE pages of thy book I read, My heart, responding, ever said, Well done! Thy words are great and bold; At times they seem to me Go on, until this land revokes The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes A voice is ever at thy side, Speaking in tones of might, Like the prophetic voice, that cried 36 Write! and tell out this bloody tale; This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, THE SLAVE'S DREAM BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, Wide through the landscape of his dreams Descend the mountain-road. He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, A tear burst from the sleeper's lids, And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. |