THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.
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
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side,
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At day-break, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
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.
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.
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!
121. THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.
SWEET to the morning traveller
The song amid the sky,
Where twinkling in the dewy light,
The skylark soars on high.
And cheering to the traveller
The gales that round him play,
When faint and heavily he drags
Along his noon-tide way.
And when beneath the unclouded sun
Full wearily toils he,
The flowing water makes to him
A soothing melody.
And when the evening light decays,
And all is calm around,
There is sweet music to his ear
In the distant sheep-bell's sound.
But oh! of all delightful sounds
Of evening or of morn,
The sweetest is the voice of love
That welcomes his return.
THE sun does arise,
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring,
To welcome the spring;
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bell's cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen,
On the echoing green.
Old John with white hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk;
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say,
Such, such, were the joys,
When we, all girls and boys,
In our youth-time were seen
On the echoing green.
Till the little ones weary,
No more can be merry,
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mothers,
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest,
And sport no more seen,
On the darkening green.
140 HOW GLAD I SHALL BE WHEN THE CUCKOO IS SINGING.
123. HOW GLAD I SHALL BE WHEN THE CUCKOO IS SINGING.
How glad I shall be when the Cuckoo is singing,
When Spring-time is here and the sunshine is warm;
For 'tis pleasant to tread where the blue-bell is springing,
And lily-cups grow in their fairy-like form.
When we shall see the loud twittering swallow
Building his home 'neath the cottager's eaves;
The brown-headed nightingale quickly will follow,
And the orchard be glad with its blossoms and leaves.
The branches so gay will be dancing away,
Decked out in their dresses so white and so pink;
And then we'll go straying,
By valleys, and hills, and the rivulet's brink.
How glad I shall be when the bright little daisies
Are peeping all over the meadows again;
How merry 'twill sound when the skylark upraises
His carolling voice o'er the flower-strewn plain.
Then the corn will be up, and the lambs will be leaping,
The palm with its buds of rich gold will be bent;
The hedges of hawthorn will burst from their sleeping,
All fresh and delicious with beauty and scent.
Twill be joyous to see the young wandering bee,
When the lilacs are out, and laburnum boughs swell;
And then we'll go straying,
By upland and lowland, by dingle and dell.
How glad I shall be when the furze-bush and clove:
Stand up in their garments of yellow and red;
When the butterfly comes like a holiday rover,
And grasshoppers cheerily jump as we tread.
All the sweet wild flowers then will be shining,
All the high trees will be covered with green;
We'll gather the rarest of blossoms for twining,
And garland the brow of some bonnie May Queen.
HOW GLAD I SHALL BE WHEN THE CUCKOO IS SINGING. 141
Like the branches so gay, we'll go dancing away,
With our cheeks in the sunlight and voices of mirth;
And then we'll go straying,
And praise all the loveliness shower'd on earth.
How like a tender mother
With loving thoughts beguil'd,
Fond nature seems to lull to rest
Each faint and weary child!
Drawing the curtain tenderly,
Affectionate and mild.
Hark! to the gentle lullaby
That through the trees is creeping;
Those sleepy trees that nod their heads
Ere the moon as yet comes peeping,
Like a tender nurse, to see if all
The little ones are sleeping.
One little fluttering bird,
Like a child in a dream of pain,
Has chirp'd and started up,
Then nestled down again;
Oh! a child and a bird, as they sink to rest,
Are as like as any twain.
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