Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
The Wreck of the Pocahontas
By Celia Thaxter (1835–1894)I
For the sun dropped down and the day was dead;
They shone like a glorious clustered flower,—
Ten golden and five red.
Stretched darkly, shrinking away from the sea,
The lights sprang out at its edge,—almost
They seemed to answer me!
Hither the storm comes! Leagues away
It moans and thunders low and drear,—
Burn till the break of day!
Slow past me through the evening sky;
And my comrades, answering shrilly, hailed
Me back with boding cry.
Weird music it drew through the iron bars,
The sullen billows boiled below,
And dimly peered the stars;
From east to west leaned low and fled;
They knew what came in the distant roar
That filled the air with dread!
Against the window a dash of rain;—
Steady as tramp of marching feet
Strode on the hurricane.
Level and deadly white for fear;
The bare rock shuddered,—an awful thrill
Shook even my tower of cheer.
Whistling and shrieking, wild and wide,
The mad wind raged, while strong and fast
Rolled in the rising tide.
Struck from the granite, reared and sprung
And clutched at tower and cottage gray,
Where overwhelmed they clung
But still burned on the faithful light,
Nor faltered at the tempest’s shock,
Through all the fearful night.
We seemed, in that confusion vast
Of rushing wind and roaring sea,
One point whereon was cast
Heaven help the ship should drift our way!
No matter how the light might shine
Far on into the day.
Of gale and breaker boomed a gun!
Another! We who sat within
Answered with cries each one.
We looked through helpless tears, as still,
One after one, near and more near,
The signals pealed, until
To show us, staggering to her grave,
The fated brig. We had no heart
To look, for naught could save.
Then closed the mists o’er canvas torn
And tangled ropes swept to and fro
From masts that raked forlorn.
Our island lay, and none might land;
Though blue the waters of the bay
Stretched calm on either hand.
A little boat stole out, to reach
Our loneliness, and bring once more
Fresh human thought and speech,
“’T was the Pocahontas,—all were lost!
For miles along the coast the tide
Her shattered timbers tossed.”
So beautiful the ocean spread
About us, o’er those sailors drowned!
“Father in heaven,” I said,—
“Do purposeless thy children meet
Such bitter death? How was it best
These hearts should cease to beat?
Like senseless weeds that rise and fall
Upon thine awful sea, are we
No more then, after all?”
For I thought of the dead that lay below;
From the bright air faded the warmth and light,
There came a chill like snow.
Where the breakers slow and slumberous rolled,
And a subtile sense of Thought profound
Touched me with power untold.
That wondrous rhythm, and, “Peace, be still!”
It murmured, “bow thy head and take
Life’s rapture and life’s ill,
The long, low, mellow music rose
And fell, and soothed my dreaming ear
With infinite repose.
Half forgetting my grief and pain;
And while the day died, sweet and fair,
I lit the lamps again.