ABSTRACT
And louder as the tempest grew, To the warm hearth more close they drew, And brighter stirred the cheerful fire, And piled the blazing faggot higher, And Ellen reached her lute, and flung Her hand across its chords, and sung In lively measure, silvery clear, The strains her father loved to hear. [ ... ] The song abruptly ceased - a sound Of voices, in the blast half drowned, Approached; and, nearer as it came, Called loudly on Fitzarthur’s name; Distress and haste were in the tones Of that loud cry; and feeble moans, As the old Pastor turned to hear, Struck indirectly on his ear, Confusedly mingled with the wail That sobbed in the subsiding gale. And soon the unclosing door displayed A rugged group, whose venturous trade, Daily with boat and net was plied On the near ocean’s foaming tide, One in their sinewy arms they bore, Whose eyes seemed closed to wake no more, But for his low and feeble plaint, That murmured faintly, and more faint. A gallant vessel, tempest tost, That night was stranded on their coast; Above her sides the breakers dashed, Around her livid lightnings flashed, Darkly revealing through the gloom The horrors of a watery tomb. The cry of perishing despair Was heard by those on shore, but there In powerless sympathy they stood, No boat might stem that roaring flood. Dreadful! to hear such heart-wrung cry,
Without the means, the power to save; Dreadful! with land and help so nigh,
To perish in a watery grave. Long with despair and fate they strive In vain - the furious surges drive Closer and firmer on the rock
The shattered bark. - That dreadful shock Has sealed her doom - she splits! she splits! Her gaping side the flood admits: That fearful cry was death - ’tis past, And they are gone - it was their last; And o’er their heads the roaring surge Rings out the seaman’s stormy dirge. One only of that hapless band Was doomed with life to reach the land; Close round a floating spar he clung, Till the returning billows flung Their living burthen on the beach, Haply within the timely reach Of human aid, for ebbing life Had half resigned its desperate strife, And the next fast retreating wave Had swept him to a watery grave. But friendly hands were near: they bore The shipwrecked wanderer to the shore, Gasping and faint; for the rude shock That dashed him on that flinty rock, Had left him stunned and bleeding there. The fishermen, with tender care Upraised him, and with short debate, As they sustained his helpless weight, Consulted at whose friendly door They best might needful aid implore. Their cabins were at hand - but no - What aid could indigence bestow, Such as the stranger’s urgent need Required; one roof was near, indeed, Where entrance and relief were free To every child of misery. There was the stranger’s home, and there With careful haste their charge they bear, And their rough voices, deep and strong, Were those that broke on Ellen’s song.
