"The Shipwreck" by John Wilson
| Transcription The Shipwreck Her giant form O'er wrathful surge, thro blackening storm, Majestically calm, would go Mid the deep darkness white as snow! But gentler now, the small waves glide Like playful lambs o'er a mountainside. So stately her bearing, so proud her array, The main she will traverse forever & ever 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 dread Are hurried o'er the deck; And fast the miserable ship Becomes a lifeless wreck. Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, Her planks are torn asunder, And down comes her masts with a reeling shock, And a hideous crash like thunder. Her sails are draggled in the brine That gladdened late the skies, And her pendant that kissed the fair moonshine Down many a fathom lies. Her beauteous sides whose rainbow hues Gleamed softly from below, And flung a warm and sunny flush O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow To the coral rocks are hurrying down, To sleep amid colors as bright as their own. Oh! many a dream was in the ship An hour before her death; And sights of home with sighs disturbed The sleeper's long-drawn breath. Instead of the murmur of the sea, The sailor heard the humming tree, Alive thro' all its leaves, The hum of the spreading sycamore That grows before his cottage-door, And the swallows' song in the eaves. His arms enclosed a blooming boy, Who listened with tears of sorrow & joy To the dangers his father had passed; And his wife - by turns she wept & smiled, As she looked on the father of her child Returned to her heart at last. He wakes at the vessel's sudden call, And the rush of waters is in his soul. Astounded the reeling deck he paces, Mid hurrying forms and ghastly face The whole ship's crew are there. Wailing around and overhead, Brave spirits stupied or dead, And madness and despair. Now is the ocean's bosom bare, Unbroken as the floating air; The ship hath melted quite away, Like a struggling dream at break of day. No image meets my wandering eye, But the new risen sun, and the sunny sky. Tho' the night-shades are gone, yet a vapor dull Bedims the waves so beautiful; While a low and melancholy moan Mourns for the glory that hath flown. Wilson | Author Bio Formal Description |