The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems E-Book

John Wilson

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

In "The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems," John Wilson weaves a rich tapestry of lyrical reflections and evocative imagery that celebrates both the natural world and the intricacies of human emotion. This collection, characterized by Wilson's masterful command of rhythm and meter, invites readers into a realm where the tranquil beauty of the isle is juxtaposed against the turbulent undertones of personal longing and existential inquiry. Set against the backdrop of early 19th-century Romanticism, the poems reflect influences from both the English pastoral tradition and the burgeoning American poetic voice, showcasing Wilson's ability to blend thematic depth with aesthetic finesse. John Wilson, a contemporary of prominent literary figures such as Wordsworth and Coleridge, possessed a deep affinity for nature and the sublime'Äîa passion that is palpably reflected in this collection. His own experiences in coastal settings, alongside an education steeped in the classics, equipped him with the tools necessary to explore the philosophical and emotional realms depicted in his work. As an advocate for emotional honesty in poetry, Wilson deftly navigates between the idyllic and the poignant, aiming to resonate with the reader on multiple levels. This collection is highly recommended for those who appreciate poetry that stirs both the mind and the soul. Readers will find themselves absorbed by Wilson's vivid depictions and profound insights, making "The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems" a timeless addition to the canon of lyric poetry. Whether you are an admirer of Romantic poetry or an explorer of human emotion, this book promises to leave a lasting impact.

Leseprobe

John Wilson

The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems

Published by Good Press, 2019

[email protected]

EAN 4064066157883

Table of Contents

THE ISLE OF PALMS.

CANTO FIRST.

THE ISLE OF PALMS.

CANTO SECOND.

THE ISLE OF PALMS.

CANTO THIRD.

THE ISLE OF PALMS.

CANTO FOURTH.

THE ANGLER'S TENT.

THE ANGLER'S TENT.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE HERMITAGE.

LINES WRITTEN ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MISS SMITH.

HYMN TO SPRING

MELROSE ABBEY.

EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM, ENTITLED "THE HEARTH."

THE FRENCH EXILE.

THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

MY COTTAGE.

LINES

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WINDERMERE, ON RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS ILLNESS.

APOLOGY

FOR THE LITTLE NAVAL TEMPLE, ON STORRS' POINT, WINDERMERE.

PICTURE OF A BLIND MAN.

TROUTBECK CHAPEL.

PEACE AND INNOCENCE.

LOUGHRIG TARN.

MARY.

LINES

WRITTEN AT A LITTLE WELL BY THE ROADSIDE, LANGDALE.

LINES

WRITTEN ON SEEING A PICTURE BY BERGHEM, OF AN ASS IN A STORM-SHOWER.

ON READING

MR CLARKSON'S HISTORY OF THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

THE FALLEN OAK, A VISION.

SCENE, A WOOD, NEAR KESWICK, BELONGING TO GREENWICH HOSPITAL.

NATURE OUTRAGED.

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED To ROBERT SYM, Esq. Edinburgh .

LINES WRITTEN BY MOONLIGHT AT SEA.

THE NAMELESS STREAM.

ART AND NATURE.

SONNET I.

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WASTWATER, DURING A STORM.

SONNET II.

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WASTWATER, DURING A CALM.

SONNET III.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, ON HELM-CRAG.

SONNET IV.

THE VOICE OF THE MOUNTAINS.

SONNET V.

THE EVENING-CLOUD.

SONNET VI.

WRITTEN ON THE SABBATH-DAY.

SONNET VII.

WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TEMPEST.

SONNET VIII.

SONNET IX.

WRITTEN ON THE EVENING I HEARD OF THE DEATH OF MY FRIEND, WILLIAM DUNLOP.

LINES

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. JAMES GRAHAME, AUTHOR OF "THE SABBATH," &C.

THE ISLE OF PALMS.

Table of Contents

CANTO FIRST.

Table of Contents

It is the midnight hour:—the beauteous Sea,Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses,While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee,Far down within the watery sky reposes.As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'dWith inward life, a sound is heard,Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep;'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air,That lies like a garment floating fairAbove the happy Deep.The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'dBy evening freshness from the land,For the land it is far away;But God hath will'd that the sky-born breezeIn the centre of the loneliest seasShould ever sport and play.The mighty Moon she sits above,Encircled with a zone of love,A zone of dim and tender lightThat makes her wakeful eye more bright:She seems to shine with a sunny ray,And the night looks like a mellow'd day!The gracious Mistress of the MainHath now an undisturbed reign,And from her silent throne looks down,As upon children of her own,On the waves that lend their gentle breastIn gladness for her couch of rest!

My spirit sleeps amid the calmThe sleep of a new delight;And hopes that she ne'er may awake again,But for ever hang o'er the lovely main,And adore the lovely night.Scarce conscious of an earthly frame,She glides away like a lambent flame,And in her bliss she sings;Now touching softly the Ocean's breast,Now mid the stars she lies at rest,As if she sail'd on wings!Now bold as the brightest star that glowsMore brightly since at first it rose,Looks down on the far-off flood,And there all breathless and alone,As the sky where she soars were a world of her own,She mocketh the gentle Mighty OneAs he lies in his quiet mood."Art thou," she breathes, "the Tyrant grimThat scoffs at human prayers,Answering with prouder roaring the while,As it rises from some lonely isle,Through groans raised wild, the hopeless hymnOf shipwreck'd mariners?Oh! Thou art harmless as a childWeary with joy, and reconciledFor sleep to change its play;And now that night hath stay'd thy race,Smiles wander o'er thy placid faceAs if thy dreams were gay."—

And can it be that for me aloneThe Main and Heavens are spread?Oh! whither, in this holy hour,Have those fair creatures fled,To whom the ocean-plains are givenAs clouds possess their native heaven?The tiniest boat, that ever sail'dUpon an inland lake,Might through this sea without a fearHer silent journey take,Though the helmsman slept as if on land,And the oar had dropp'd from the rower's hand.How like a monarch would she glide,While the husht billow kiss'd her sideWith low and lulling tone,Some stately Ship, that from afarShone sudden, like a rising star,With all her bravery on!List! how in murmurs of delightThe blessed airs of Heaven inviteThe joyous bark to pass one nightWithin their still domain!O grief! that yonder gentle Moon,Whose smiles for ever fade so soon,Should waste such smiles in vain.Haste! haste! before the moonshine dies,Dissolved amid the morning skies,While yet the silvery glory liesAbove the sparkling foam;Bright mid surrounding brightness, Thou,Scattering fresh beauty from thy prow,In pomp and splendour come!

And lo! upon the murmuring wavesA glorious Shape appearing!A broad-wing'd Vessel, through the showerOf glimmering lustre steering!As if the beauteous ship enjoy'dThe beauty of the sea,She lifteth up her stately headAnd saileth joyfully.A lovely path before her lies,A lovely path behind;She sails amid the lovelinessLike a thing with heart and mind.Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair,Slowly she beareth on;A glorious phantom of the deep,Risen up to meet the Moon.The Moon bids her tenderest radiance fallOn her wavy streamer and snow-white wings,And the quiet voice of the rocking seaTo cheer the gliding vision sings.Oh! ne'er did sky and water blendIn such a holy sleep,Or bathe in brighter quietudeA roamer of the deep.So far the peaceful soul of HeavenHath settled on the sea,It seems as if this weight of calmWere from eternity.O World of Waters! the stedfast earthNe er lay entranced like Thee!

Is she a vision wild and bright,That sails amid the still moon-lightAt the dreaming soul's command?A vessel borne by magic gales,All rigg'd with gossamery sails,And bound for Fairy-land?Ah! no!—an earthly freight she bears,Of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;And lonely as she seems to be,Thus left by herself on the moonlight seaIn loneliness that rolls,She hath a constant company,In sleep, or waking revelry,Five hundred human souls!Since first she sail'd from fair England,Three moons her path have cheer'd;And another stands right over her mastsSince the Cape hath disappear'd.For an Indian Isle she shapes her wayWith constant mind both night and day:She seems to hold her home in view,And sails, as if the path she knew;So calm and stately is her motionAcross th' unfathom'd trackless ocean.

And well, glad Vessel! mayst thou stemThe tide with lofty breast,And lift thy queen-like diademO'er these thy realms of rest:For a thousand beings, now far away,Behold thee in their sleep,And hush their beating hearts to prayThat a calm may clothe the deep.When dimly descending behind the seaFrom the Mountain Isle of Liberty,Oh! many a sigh pursued thy vanish'd sail;And oft an eager crowd will standWith straining gaze on the Indian strand,Thy wonted gleam to hail.For thou art laden with Beauty and Youth,With Honour bold, and spotless Truth,With fathers, who have left in a home of restTheir infants smiling at the breast,With children, who have bade their parents farewell,Or who go to the land where their parents dwell.God speed thy course, thou gleam of delight!From rock and tempest clear;Till signal gun from friendly heightProclaim, with thundering cheer,To joyful groupes on the harbour bright,That the good ship Hope is near!

Is no one on the silent deckSave the helmsman who sings for a breeze,And the sailors who pace their midnight watch,Still as the slumbering seas?Yes! side by side, and hand in hand,Close to the prow two figures stand,Their shadows never stir,And fondly as the Moon doth restUpon the Ocean's gentle breast,So fond they look on her.They gaze and gaze till the beauteous orbSeems made for them alone:They feel as if their home were Heaven,And the earth a dream that hath flown.Softly they lean on each other's breast,In holy bliss reposing,Like two fair clouds to the vernal airIn folds of beauty closing.The tear down their glad faces rolls,And a silent prayer is in their souls,While the voice of awaken'd memory,Like a low and plaintive melody,Sings in their hearts—a mystic voice,That bids them tremble and rejoice.And Faith, who oft had lost her powerIn the darkness of the midnight hourWhen the planets had roll'd afar,Now stirs in their soul with a joyful strife,Embued with a genial spirit of lifeBy the Moon and the Morning-Star.

A lovelier vision in the moonlight stands,Than Bard e'er woo'd in fairy lands,Or Faith with tranced eye adored,Floating around our dying Lord.Her silent face is saintly-pale,And sadness shades it like a veil:A consecrated nun she seems,Whose waking thoughts are deep as dreams,And in her hush'd and dim abodeFor ever dwell upon her God,Though the still fount of tears and sighsAnd human sensibilities!Well may the Moon delight to shedHer softest radiance round that head,And mellow the cool ocean-airThat lifts by fits her sable hair.These mild and melancholy eyesAre dear unto the starry skies,As the dim effusion of their raysBlends with the glimmering light that playsO'er the blue heavens, and snowy clouds,The cloud-like sails, and radiant shrouds.Fair creature! Thou dost seem to beSome wandering spirit of the sea,That dearly loves the gleam of sails,And o'er them breathes propitious gales.Hither thou comest, for one wild hour,With him thy sinless paramour,To gaze, while the wearied sailors sleep,On this beautiful phantom of the deep,That seem'd to rise with the rising Moon.—But the Queen of Night will be sinking soon,Then will you, like two breaking waves,Sink softly to your coral caves,Or, noiseless as the falling dew,Melt into Heaven's delicious blue.

Nay! wrong her not, that Virgin bright!Her face is bathed in lovelier lightThan ever flow'd from eyesOf Ocean Nymph, or Sylph of Air!The tearful gleam, that trembles there,From human dreams must rise.Let the Mermaid rest in her sparry cell,Her sea-green ringlets braiding!The Sylph in viewless ether dwell,In clouds her beauty shading!My soul devotes her music wildTo one who is an earthly child,But who, wandering through the midnight hour,Far from the shade of earthly bower,Bestows a tenderer loveliness,A deeper, holier quietness,On the moonlight Heaven, and Ocean hoar,So quiet and so fair before.Yet why does a helpless maiden roam,Mid stranger souls, and far from home,Across the faithless deep?Oh! fitter far that her gentle mindIn some sweet inland vale should findAn undisturbed sleep!

So was it once. Her childish yearsLike clouds pass'd o'er her head,When life is all one rosy smile, or tearsOf natural grief, forgotten soon as shed.O'er her own mountains, like a birdGlad wandering from its nest,When the glossy hues of the sunny springAre dancing on its breast,With a winged glide this maiden would rove,An innocent phantom of beauty and love.Far from the haunts of men she grewBy the side of a lonesome tower,Like some solitary mountain-flower,Whose veil of wiry dewIs only touch'd by the gales that breatheO'er the blossoms of the fragrant heath,And in its silence melts awayWith those sweet things too pure for earthly day.Blest was the lore that Nature taughtThe infant's happy mind,Even when each light and happy thoughtPass'd onwards like the wind,Nor longer seem'd to linger thereThan the whispering sound in her raven-hair.Well was she known to each mountain-stream,As its own voice, or the fond moon-beamThat o'er its music play'd:The loneliest caves her footsteps heard,In lake and tarn oft nightly stirr'dThe Maiden's ghost-like shade.But she hath bidden a last farewellTo lake and mountain, stream and dell,And fresh have blown the galesFor many a mournful night and day,Wafting the tall Ship far awayFrom her dear native Wales.

And must these eyes—so soft and mild,As angel's bright, as fairy's wild,Swimming in lustrous dew,Now sparkling lively, gay, and glad,And now their spirit melting sadIn smiles of gentlest blue—Oh! must these eyes be steep'd in tears,Bedimm'd with dreams of future years,Of what may yet betideAn Orphan-Maid!—for in the nightShe oft hath started with affright,To find herself a bride;A bride oppress'd with fear and shame,And bearing not Fitz-Owen's name.This fearful dream oft haunts her bed.For she hath heard of maidens sold,In the innocence of thoughtless youth,To Guilt and Age for gold;Of English maids who pined awayBeyond the Eastern Main,Who smiled, when first they trod that shore,But never smiled again.In dreams is she the wretched Maid,An Orphan—helpless—sold—betray'd—And, when the dream hath fled,In waking thought she still retainsThe memory of these wildering pains,In strange mysterious dread.

Yet oft will happier dreams ariseBefore her charmed view,And the powerful beauty of the skiesMakes her believe them true.For who, when nought is heard around,But the great Ocean's solemn sound,Feels not as if the Eternal GodWere speaking in that dread abode?An answering voice seems kindly givenFrom the multitude of stars in Heaven:And oft a smile of moonlight fair,To perfect peace hath changed despair.Low as we are, we blend our fateWith things so beautifully great,And though opprest with heaviest grief,From Nature's bliss we draw relief,Assured that God's most gracious eyeBeholds us in our misery,And sends mild sound and lovely sight,To change that misery to delight.—Such is thy faith, O sainted Maid!Pensive and pale, but not afraidOf Ocean or of Sky,Though thou ne'er mayst see the land again,And though awful be the lonely Main,No fears hast thou to die.Whate'er betide of weal or wo,When the waves are asleep, or the tempests blow,Thou wilt bear with calm devotion;For duly every night and morn,Sweeter than Mermaid's strains are borneThy hymns along the Ocean.

And who is He, that fondly pressesClose to his heart the silken tressesThat hide her soften'd eyes,Whose heart her heaving bosom meets,And through the midnight silence beatsTo feel her rising sighs?Worthy the Youth, I ween, to restOn the fair swellings of her breast,Worthy to hush her inmost fears,And kiss away her struggling tears:For never grovelling spirit stoleA woman's unpolluted soul!To her the vestal fire is given;And only fire drawn pure from HeavenCan on Love's holy shrine descend,And there in clouds of fragrance blend.Well do I know that stately Youth!The broad day-light of cloudless truthLike a sun-beam bathes his face;Though silent, still a gracious smile,That rests upon his eyes the while,Bestows a speaking grace.That smile hath might of magic art,To sway at will the stoniest heart,As a ship obeys the gale;And when his silver voice is heard;The coldest blood is warmly stirr'd,As at some glorious tale.The loftiest spirit never sawThis Youth without a sudden awe;But vain the transient feeling stroveAgainst the stealing power of love.Soon as they felt the tremor cease,He seem'd the very heart of peace.Majestic to the bold and high,Yet calm and beauteous to a woman's eye!

To him, a mountain Youth, was knownThe wailing tempest's dreariest tone.He knew the shriek of wizard caves,And the trampling fierce of howling waves.The mystic voice of the lonely night,He had often drunk with a strange delight,And look'd on the clouds as they roll'd on high,Till with them he sail'd on the sailing sky.And thus hath he learn'd to wake the lyre,With something of a bardlike fire;Can tell in high empassion'd song,Of worlds that to the Bard belong,And, till they feel his kindling breath,To others still and dark as death.Yet oft, I ween, in gentler moodA human kindness hush'd his blood,And sweetly blended earth-born sighsWith the Bard's romantic extacies.The living world was dear to him,And in his waking hours more bright it seem'd,More touching far, than when his fancy dream'dOf heavenly bowers, th' abode of Seraphim:And gladly from her wild sojournMid haunts dim-shadow'd in the realms of mind,Even like a wearied dove that flies for restBack o'er long fields of air unto her nest,His longing spirit homewards would returnTo meet once more the smile of human kind.And when at last a human soul he found,Pure as the thought of purity—more mildThan in its slumber seems a dreaming child;When on his spirit stole the mystic sound,The voice, whose music sad no mortal earBut his can rightly understand and hear,When a subduing smile like moonlight shoneOn him for ever, and for him alone,Why should he seek this lower world to leave!For, whether now he love to joy or grieve,A friend he hath for sorrow or delight,Who lends fresh beauty to the morning light,The tender stars in tenderer dimness shrouds,And glorifies the Moon among her clouds.

How would he gaze with reverent eyeUpon that meek and pensive maid,Then fix his looks upon the skyWith moving lips as if he pray'd!Unto his sight bedimm'd with tears,How beautiful the saint appears—Oh! all unlike a creature form'd of clay,The blessed angels with delightMight hail her "Sister!" She is brightAnd innocent as they.Scarce dared he then that form to love!A solemn impulse from aboveAll earthly hopes forbade,And with a pure and holy flame,As if in truth from Heaven she came,He gazed upon the maid.His beating heart, thus fill'd with awe,In her the guardian spirit sawOf all his future years;And, when he listened to her breathSo spiritual, nor pain nor deathSeem'd longer worth his fears.She loved him! She, the Child of Heaven!And God would surely makeThe soul to whom that love was givenMore perfect for her sake.Each look, each word, of one so goodDevoutly he obey'd,And trusted that a gracious eyeWould ever guide his destiny,For whom in holy solitudeSo sweet an Angel pray'd.

Those days of tranquil joy are fled,And tears of deep distressFrom night to morn hath Mary shed:And, say! when sorrow bow'd her headDid he then love her less?Ah no! more touching beauty roseThrough the dim paleness of her woes,Than when her cheek did bloomWith joy's own lustre: something there,A saint-like calm, a deep repose,Made her look like a spirit fairNew risen from the tomb.For ever in his heart shall dwellThe voice with which she said farewellTo the fading English shore;It dropp'd like dew upon his ear,And for the while he ceased to hearThe sea-wind's freshening roar."To thee I trust my sinless child:"And therefore am I reconciled"To bear my lonely lot,"The Gracious One, who loves the good,"For her will smooth the Ocean wild,"Nor in her aged solitude"A parent be forgot."The last words these her Mother spake,Sobbing as if her heart would breakBeside the cold sea-shore,When onwards with the favouring gale,Glad to be free, in pride of sailTh' impatient Vessel bore.

Oh! could she now in magic glassBehold the winged glory passWith a slow and cloud-like motion,While, as they melted on her eye,She scarce should ken the peaceful skyFrom the still more peaceful Ocean!And it may be such dreams are givenIn mercy by indulgent Heaven,To solace them that mourn:The absent bless our longing sight,The future shows than truth more bright,And phantoms of expir'd delightMost passing sweet return.Mother! behold thy Child: How stillHer upward face! She thinks on thee:Oh, thou canst never gaze thy fill!How beautiful such piety!There in her lover's guardian armsShe rests: and all the wild alarmsOf waves or winds are hush'd, no more to rise.Of thee, and thee alone, she thinks:See! on her knees thy daughter sinks:Sure God will bless the prayer that lights such eyes!Didst thou e'er think thy child so fair?The rapture of her granted prayerHath breathed that awful beauty through her face:Once more upon the deck she stands,Slowly unclasps her pious hands,And brightening smiles, assured of heavenly grace.

Oh, blessed pair! and, while I gaze,As beautiful as blest!Emblem of all your future daysSeems now the Ocean's rest!Beyond the blue depths of the sky,The Tempests sleep;—and there must lie,Like baleful spirits barr'd from realms of bliss.But singing airs, and gleams of light,And birds of calm, all-glancing bright,Must hither in their gladness come.—Where shall they find a fitter homeThan a night-scene fair as this?And when, her fairy voyage past,The happy Ship is moor'd at lastIn the loved haven of her Indian Isle,How dear to you will be the beamsOf the silent Moon! What touching dreamsYour musing hearts beguile!Though haply then her radiance fallOn some low mansion's flowery wall,Far up an inland vale,Yet then the sheeted mast will tower,Her shrouds all rustling like a shower,And, melting as wild music's power,Low pipe the sea-born gale.Each star will speak the tenderest things,And when the clouds expand their wings,All parting like a fleet,Your own beloved Ship, I ween,Will foremost in the van be seen,And, rising loud and sweet,The sailor's joyful shouts be heard,Such as the midnight silence stirr'dWhen the wish'd-for breezes blew,And, instant as the loud commands,Sent upwards from a hundred handsThe broad sails rose unto the sky,And from her slumbers suddenlyThe Ship like lightning flew!

But list! a low and moaning soundAt distance heard, like a spirit's song,And now it reigns above, around,As if it call'd the Ship along.The Moon is sunk; and a clouded greyDeclares that her course is run,And like a God who brings the day,Up mounts the glorious Sun.Soon as his light has warm'd the seas,From the parting cloud fresh blows the Breeze;And that is the spirit whose well-known songMakes the vessel to sail in joy along.No fears hath she;—Her giant-formO'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,Majestically calm, would goMid the deep darkness white as snow!But gently now the small waves glideLike playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.So stately her bearing, so proud her array,The Main she will traverse for ever and aye.Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast!—Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last.Five hundred souls in one instant of dreadAre hurried o'er the deck;And fast the miserable ShipBecomes a lifeless wreck.Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,Her planks are torn asunder,And down come her masts with a reeling shock,And a hideous crash like thunder.Her sails are draggled in the brineThat gladdened late the skies,And her pendant that kiss'd the fair moonshineDown many a fathom lies.Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow huesGleam'd softly from below,And flung a warm and sunny flushO'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,To the coral rocks are hurrying downTo sleep amid colours as bright as their own.

Oh! many a dream was in the ShipAn hour before her death;And sights of home with sighs disturb'dThe sleepers' long-drawn breath.Instead of the murmur of the seaThe sailor heard the humming treeAlive through all its leaves,The hum of the spreading sycamoreThat grows before his cottage-door,And the swallow's song in the eaves.His arms inclosed a blooming boy,Who listen'd with tears of sorrow and joyTo the dangers his father had pass'd;And his wife—by turns she wept and smiled,As she look'd on the father of her childReturn'd to her heart at last.—He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,And the rush of waters is in his soul.Astounded the reeling deck he paces,Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces;—The whole Ship's crew are there.Wailings around and overhead,Brave spirits stupefied or dead,And madness and despair.

Leave not the wreck, thou cruel Boat,While yet 'tis thine to save,And angel-hands will bid thee floatUninjured o'er the wave,Though whirlpools yawn across thy way,And storms, impatient for their prey,Around thee fiercely rave!Vain all the prayers of pleading eyes,Of outcry loud, and humble sighs,Hands clasp'd, or wildly toss'd on highTo bless or curse in agony!Despair and resignation vain!Away like a strong-wing'd bird she flies,That heeds not human miseries,And far off in the sunshine diesLike a wave of the restless main.Hush! hush! Ye wretches left behind!Silence becomes the brave, resign'dTo unexpected doom.How quiet the once noisy crowd!The sails now serve them for a shroud,And the sea-cave is their tomb.And where is that loveliest Being gone?Hope not that she is saved alone,Immortal though such beauty seem'd to be.She, and the Youth that loved her too,Went down with the ship and her gallant crew—No favourites hath the sea.