Volume Ii Part 25 (2/2)

The Snowdrop sank at Lammas tide, All under the yeasty spray; On Christmas Eve the brig Content Was also cast away.

He little thought o' New Year's night, So jolly as he sat then, While drank the toast and praised the roast The round-faced Aldermen,--

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, With every rising tide, How the wave washed in his sailor lads, And laid them by his side.

There stepped a stranger to the board: ”Now, stranger, who be ye?”

He looked to the right, he looked to the left, And ”Rest you merry,” quoth he;

”For you did not see the brig go down, Or ever a storm had blown; For you did not see the white wave rear At the rock,--the Eddystone.

”She drave at the rock with stern sails set; Crash went the masts in twain; She staggered back with her mortal blow, Then leaped at it again.

”There rose a great cry, bitter and strong; The misty moon looked out!

And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, And the wreck was strewed about.

”I saw her mainsail lash the sea, As I clung to the rock alone; Then she heeled over, and down she went, And sank like any stone.

”She was a fair s.h.i.+p, but all's one!

For naught could bide the shock.”-- ”I will take horse,” Winstanley said, ”And see this deadly rock.

”For never again shall bark o' mine Sail o'er the windy sea, Unless, by the blessing of G.o.d, for this Be found a remedy.”

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town All in the sleet and the snow; And he looked around on sh.o.r.e and sound, As he stood on Plymouth Hoe.

Till a pillar of spray rose far away, And shot up its stately head, Reared, and fell over, and reared again: ”'Tis the rock! the rock!” he said.

Straight to the Mayor he took his way: ”Good Master Mayor,” quoth he, ”I am a mercer of London town, And owner of vessels three.

”But for your rock of dark renown, I had five to track the main.”-- ”You are one of many,” the old Mayor said, ”That of the rock complain.

”An ill rock, mercer! your words ring right, Well with my thoughts they chime, For my two sons to the world to come It sent before their time.”

”Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, And a score of s.h.i.+pwrights free; For I think to raise a lantern tower On this rock o' destiny.”

The old Mayor laughed, but sighed also: ”Ah, youth,” quoth he, ”is rash; Sooner, young man, thou'lt root it out From the sea that doth it lash.

”Who sails too near its jagged teeth, He shall have evil lot; For the calmest seas that tumble there Froth like a boiling pot.

”And the heavier seas few look on nigh, But straight they lay him dead; A seventy-gun-s.h.i.+p, sir!--they'll shoot Higher than her masthead.

”Oh, beacons sighted in the dark, They are right welcome things, And pitch pots flaming on the sh.o.r.e Show fair as angel wings.

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