Part 13 (1/2)

”And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.”

SHAKSPEARE.

Her side is in the water, Her keel is in the sand, And her bowsprit rests on the low gray rock That bounds the sea and land.

Her deck is without a mast, And sand and sh.e.l.ls are there, And the teeth of decay are gnawing her planks, In the sun and the sultry air.

No more on the river's bosom, When sky and wave are calm, And the clouds are in summer quietness, And the cool night-breath is balm,

Will she glide in the swan-like stillness Of the moon in the blue above, A messenger from other lands, A beacon to hope and love.

No more, in the midnight tempest, Will she mock the mounting sea, Strong in her oaken timbers, And her white sail's bravery.

She hath borne, in days departed, Warm hearts upon her deck; Those hearts, like her, are mouldering now, The victims, and the wreck

Of time, whose touch erases Each vestige of all we love; The wanderers, home returning, Who gazed that deck above,

And they who stood to welcome Their loved ones on that sh.o.r.e, Are gone, and the place that knew them Shall know them never more.

It was a night of terror, In the autumn equinox, When that gallant vessel found a grave Upon the Peekskill rocks.

Captain, mate, cook, and seamen (They were in all but three), Were saved by swimming fast and well, And their gallows-destiny.

But two, a youth and maiden, Were left to brave the storm, With unp.r.o.nounceable Dutch names, And hearts with true love warm.

And they, for love has watchers In air, on earth, and sea, Were saved by clinging to the wreck, And their marriage-destiny.

From sunset to night's noon She had lean'd upon his arm, Nor heard the far-off thunder toll The tocsin of alarm.

Not so the youth--he listen'd To the cloud-wing flapping by; And low he whisper'd in Low Dutch, ”It tells our doom is nigh.

”Death is the lot of mortals, But we are young and strong, And hoped, not boldly, for a life Of happy years and long.

”Yet 'tis a thought consoling, That, till our latest breath, We loved in life, and shall not be Divided in our death.

”Alas, for those that wait us On their couch of dreams at home, The morn will hear the funeral cry Around their daughter's tomb.

”They hoped” ('twas a strange moment In Dutch to quote Shakspeare) ”Thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy bier.”