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March 24, 1878
TIRED with the toils that know no end, | |
| On wintry seas long doomed to roam, | |
| They smiled to think that March could lend | |
| Such radiant winds to waft them home; | |
| Long perils overpast, | 5 |
| They stood for port at last, | |
| Close by the fair familiar water-way, | |
| And on their sunlit lee | |
| All hearts were glad to see | |
| The crags of Culver through the shining day; | 10 |
| While every white-winged bird, | |
| Whose joyous cry they heard, | |
| Seemed wild to shout the welcome that it bore | |
| Of love from friends on shore. | |
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| Ah! brief their joy, as days are brief | 15 |
| In March that loves not joy or sun; | |
| O bitter to the heart of grief | |
| The port that never shall be won; | |
| Fair ship, with all sail set, | |
| Didst thou perchance forget | 20 |
| The changing times and treacherous winds of Spring? | |
| And could those headlong gray | |
| Rehearse no tale to-day, | |
| Of wrecks they have seen, and many a grievous thing? | |
| Thy towering cliff, Dunnose, | 25 |
| Full many a secret knows,— | |
| Cry out in warning voice! too much they dare; | |
| Death gathers in the air. | |
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| A wind blew sharp out of the north, | |
| And o’er the island ridges rose | 30 |
| A sound of tempest going forth, | |
| And murmur of approaching snows. | |
| Then through the sunlit air | |
| Streamed dark the lifted hair | |
| Of storm-cloud, gathering for the light’s eclipse, | 35 |
| And fiercely rose and fell | |
| And shriek of waves, the knell | |
| Of seamen, and the doom of wandering ships; | |
| As with an eagle’s cry | |
| The mighty storm rushed by, | 40 |
| Trailing its robe of snow across the wave, | |
| And gulfed them like a grave. | |
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| It passed; it fell; and all was still; | |
| But, homebound wanderers, where were they? | |
| The wind went down behind the hill, | 45 |
| The sunset gilded half the bay. | |
| Ah! loud bewildered sea, | |
| Vain, vain our trust in thee | |
| To bring our kinsfolk home, through storm and tide! | |
| So sharp and swift the blow, | 50 |
| Thyself dost hardly know | |
| Where now they rest whom thou didst bear and guide; | |
| Our human hearts may break, | |
| Cold Ocean, for thy sake,— | |
| Thou not the less canst paint in colors fair | 55 |
| The eve of our despair. | |
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| Not hard for heroes is the death | |
| That greets them from the cannon’s lips, | |
| When heaven is red with flaming breath, | |
| And shakes with roar of sundering ships: | 60 |
| When through the thunder-cloud | |
| Sounds to them, clear and loud, | |
| The voice of England calling them by name; | |
| And as their eyes grow dim | |
| They hear the nation’s hymn, | 65 |
| And know the prelude of immortal fame; | |
| But sad indeed is this | |
| The meed of war to miss, | |
| And die for England, but in dying know | |
| They leave no name but woe. | 70 |
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| They cannot rest through coming years, | |
| In any ground that England owns, | |
| And billows salter than our tears | |
| Wash over their unhonored bones; | |
| Yet in our hearts they rest | 75 |
| Not less revered and blest | |
| Than those, their brothers, who in fighting fell; | |
| Nor shall our children hear | |
| Their names pronounced less dear, | |
| When England’s roll of gallant dead we tell; | 80 |
| For ever shall our ships, | |
| There, at the Solent’s lips, | |
| Pass out to glory over their still bed, | |
| And praise the silent dead. | |
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