THE LOSS OF THE ATALANTA,

FROM THE

ENGLISH PRIZE POEM FOR 1881.

Calm, aye! calm as some fair water bosom'd in a mountain nest,
Sung to sleep by honied zephyrs, gentler than to break its rest,
Lay the mighty-limb'd Atlantic; not a cloud its shadow threw;
Scarce a whisper stirr'd the stillness; scarce a ripple broke the
blue;

Save where o'er the vast of waters, like some Alpine summit tall,
Proudly linking sea and heaven tower'd a triple snowy wall.
All day long from white Bermuda had the Atalanta toil'd!
Vain her vaunted wings of swiftness, by the breathless torpor
foil'd.

Homeward bound!-Three hundred voices sped the word from mouth to mouth:

Homeward bound!-Yet still the breezes linger'd in the sultry South.

Slowly, sleepily and slowly, o'er the weary-stretching waste: Heaven and air and ocean mock'd them, creeping there in helpless haste.

Why this heavy languor lying sullen o'er the silent main?

Why, O why this ghostly glamour, threaten'd, fought, defied in vain ?

Still the lifeless vast around them, still the heartless sky above! O for some kind breeze to waft them, lift them to the land they love!

Onward, onward!-they are waiting, waiting on the distant shore:

Onward! lest those sad hearts longing deem you lost for ever

more.

Thousand tearful eyes are gazing o'er the cold unpitying deep; Thousand minds are brooding nightly o'er a care that cannot sleep;

Mothers' hearts are surely breaking 'neath a more than mortal pain;

Many an age-worn sire is drooping, ne'er to see his boy again.
Onward, then, for love or mercy; leap the waters, onward fly!-
Slowly, sleepily and slowly listless ocean, sullen sky!

Gone! gone for ever! sad the moan:
Three hundred brave boy-sailors gone!
Ta'en all together! snatch'd away,
Three hundred souls in one dark day!

Of life and fame and fortune shorn,
Heroes from deeds of glory torn;
No tomb to guard the mouldering frame
Or hallow with a cloister's name ;
No monument of marble pride

To blazon forth the death they died;
No voice to tell the fate they shared,
The fields they won, the deeds they dared:
In depths unfathom'd lying lone,
Unsung, unsepulchr'd, unknown!-
Yet, though there be no martial bier
Where piety may shed the tear,

Though that young blood, with all its might,
Ne'er knew the fever of the fight,

Think not 'twas vain, that life of theirs :-
The tiniest flower the rose-bush wears

Is brighter than the tallest tree;

The poorest gem the ocean bears
Outshines the rocks that gird the sea.
Each has his part-the babe that dies
E'er the first sleep has closed his eyes,
The hoary sire who lingers on
Till brothers, sisters, sons are gone.
All's for the best; nor mourn, my heart,
Those that have filled their destined part:
Their work is done, their troubles o'er;
No cares for them, no sorrows more :-
'Twas danger, trouble, toil they chose:
God gave them safety, peace, repose.
Nor ask me how they perish'd-nay!
Enough to know they pass'd away:
A sudden gust- an iceberg shock-
A sharp crash on a hidden rock-
Some towering mast by lightning riv'n :-
They slept, and woke, and lo! 'twas Heav'n.

EDWARD KIRBY.