THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 115 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 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 the bleak sea-beach, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed 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, Christ save us all from a death like this, Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges In some far-off, bright Azore ; From Bahama, and the dashing, Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness, Floats some fragment of a song : From the far-off isles enchanted, Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth: From the flashing surf, whose vision In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Floating waste and desolate ;-- Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, Household words, no more depart. THE DAY IS DONE. THE day is done, and the darkness As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, |