Classic Poem

“A H ! by these breezes—(how unlike the airs
That clipp'd us when we sought our berths last night!)—
These languid breezes, and the odorous breath
That sweeps to us from forests of green pines,
I know that we have pass'd the stormy Cape!”

Exclaiming thus, when, waking at the dawn.
I hurried from the cabin to the deck,
And there—his wrath subdued, his winds at rest—
Lay the fierce god of cloudy Hatteras,
At length upon the deep. Our vessel ran
Beside him fearless, and the eyes that oft
Had trembled at the story of his storms
Look'd on him without dread. Yet, in his sleep,
The sun down blazing on his old gray head,
There was a moody murmur of his waves
That spake of ruthless powers, and bade us fly
To our far homes, with wings of moving fear
Not less than hope. We might not loiter long,
Like thoughtless birds, improvident of home,
And wandering, by the sunshine still seduced,
O'er treacherous billows. No half despot he,
To spare in mercy in his wrathful hour.
A thousand miles along his sandy couch
The shores shall feel his wakening, and his lash
Resound in thunder. Brooding by the sea
He lurks in waiting for the passing bark,
And every year hath its own chronicle
Of his exactions—of the fearful tribute
He takes from all alike. Cruel the tale
Of friends that here pay forfeit with their lives
For the o'erweening faith that trusts his calms;—
Whilst the beloved ones, watching by the port,
Look vainly for their coming. Sad the tale
Of the poor maiden, shrieking in despair,
Grasp'd in his rude embrace, and borne away
To unreturning caverns of the deep,—
Which, with an aspect obdurate, behold
The precious lamp of life put sudden out
Even its kindling glow. Yet are there hours
When the true spirit of love defies his rage;
And, in one night of terror and of storm,
When his wild seas were wildest—and the ship
Strove, sinking 'neath them,—and all living souls
Were all distraught—all hopeless, purposeless,
Struggling against each other as with death—
Blind, knowing not the kinsman or the friend,—
Calling on God, with but a half a prayer,—
And him forgettingly;—one voice, o'er all,
Was heard amid the clamor and the storm,
Firm, crying for the woman who had lain,
Until that fearful hour, upon his breast,
And now was sunder'd from him by the night,
Unconsciously:—“Oh! where art thou, my wife!”
That loving cry was heard above the storm;—
The winds grew moment still;—the tumbling waves
Lifted their heads as in a grim surprise,
And paused in their huge gambols! Ah! too soon
To rush to their renewal. The fond cry
Was stifled ere it rose into the heavens,
But not before the wife made answer sweet,
That, through the midnight blackness, seem'd a voice
To waken life in death;—“I come to thee,
Where art thou, dearest husband? Let me come!”

She sprang to join him, and the sullen seas
Closed over them forever. 'Tis my prayer
That, ere he perish'd, she had wound her arms
About him, and had press'd her lip to his:—
And it were seemly, if, beneath the waves,
They sleep encircled in the same embrace;—
Her cheek upon his bosom, and his arms
Wrapt round her in the holy grasp of love;
Secure from storm, and, best assurance yet,
Secure from separation evermore!