The Wrecked

The sun went down as gorgeously,Wrapped in his crimson vest,As though the lamps of night were placedAs watchers o'er his rest;But with the shades of midnight cameThe storm-king's clarion blast,And tempests gathered at his call,And whirlwinds hurried past.There was a sound of rushing winds,A sound of hastening waves—Strong waters stretched their arms to snatchBright spoils from ocean's caves;Then came the crash!—the long, wild shriek!—The dash of waves on the white cheek—The aimless clutch—the smothered prayer!—And wild winds sung a requiem there.

The morning woke, serene and bright;The sunlight on the deepDwelt, like a smile upon the lipOf innocence asleep;The light winged zephyrs gently sweptSweet breathings o'er the seaSo lately parted by the strongWild plunge of agony;But the lone sea bird flapped his wingsAbove the laughing wave,And screamed forth tales of tempest doom—Death, and an ocean grave;Of trembling hands, outstretched to holdThe shuddering heart from waters cold—The dizzy brain and shivering breath,When frenzied horror strove with death.

But all are sleeping calmly now—The coward and the brave,The earth-stained and the beautiful,All shrouded' by the wave.What forms of breathing loveliness,What hearts of throbbing worthWere laid in those cold depths, to leaveGrief-darkened homes for earth.Ah, me!—but wherefore do we twineSoul fibers round the dead—Why hoard the casket, when we knowThe precious jewel fled?Oh! why o'er broken life-threads weep?Save tears—hot tears—for those who steepTheir souls in crime's waves, dark and red;These are the lost, the wrecked, the dead!