Puslapio vaizdai


Colder and louder blew the wind,

A gale from the north-east ;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows froth'd like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;

She shudder'd and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leap'd her cable's length.

"Come hither!-come hither! my little daughter,

And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale

That ever wind did blow."

He wrapp'd her warm in his seaman's coat,

Against the stinging blast:

He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring; say, what may it be?"

""Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" And he steer'd for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns; 0 say, what may it be?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"


“O father! I see a gleaming light,
O say, what it may be?"

But the father answer'd never a word,—
A frozen corpse was he!

Lash'd to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turn'd to the skies;

The lantern gleam'd through the gleaming snow
On his fix'd and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasp'd her hands, and pray'd

That saved she might be ;

And she thought of Christ, who still'd the waves On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,

Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows;
She drifted a dreary wreck;

And a whooping billow swept the crew,
Like icicles, from her deck.


She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Look'd soft as carded wool;

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side,
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheath'd in ice,
With the masts, went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,-
Ho-ho! the breakers roar'd!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,

To see the form of a maiden fair
Lash'd close to a drifting mast.

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 !




IN silent horror, o'er the boundless waste,
The driver Hassan with his camels pass'd;
One cruse of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contain'd a scanty store;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
The sultry sun had gain'd the middle sky,
And not a tree, and not an herb, was nigh:
The beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view!
With desperate sorrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice sigh'd, thrice struck his breast, and thus began :
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!
Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind,
The thirst or pinching hunger that I find!
Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage,
When fails this cruse, his unrelenting rage ?
Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign;
Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine?
Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear

In all my griefs a more than equal share!
Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,
Or moss-crown'd fountains mitigate the day,


In vain ye hope the green delights to know,

Which plains more bless'd, or verdant vales, bestow;
Here rocks alone and tasteless sands are found,

And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!
Oh, cease my fears !—all frantic as I go,
When thought creates unnumber'd scenes of woe ;
What if the lion in his rage I meet!

Oft in the dust I view his printed feet,


And, fearful! oft, when day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to the mourner night,
By hunger roused, he scours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train;
Before them death, with shrieks, directs their way,
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!
At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep,
If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep;
Or some swoll'n serpent twist his scales around,
And wake to anguish with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor;
From lust of wealth, and dread of death, secure!
They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find ;
Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind.
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"


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