MAKING PORT. And tacking west and tacking east, All flutterous clamor overhead, Her weather shrouds as viol-strings, The long, lithe schooner dips and springs; Shoulder to shoulder, breast to breast, Driving the wheel to wind, to lee, The harbor opens wide and wide, The Vineyard's low hills backward slide; 219 220 MAKING PORT. And tacking starboard, tacking port, And jibing once to wear about, A lumberman lies full abeam, The flow sets squarely toward her; A sudden flurry fore and aft, Shout, trample, strain, wind howling ; A ponderous jar of craft on craft, A boom that threatens fouling; A jarring slide of hull on hull, Her bowsprit sweeps our quarter. The anchor rattles from the bow, He stood beside a cottage lone, And listened to a lute, One summer eve, when the breeze was gone, And the nightingale was mute. The moon was watching on the hill; The stream was staid, and the maples still, To hear a lover's suit, That, half a vow, and half a prayer, Spoke less of hope than of despair, And rose into the calm, soft air, As sweet and low, As he had heard-O, woe! O, woe! "By every hope that earthward clings, By faith that mounts on angel wings, By dreams that make night-shadows bright, In peace or strife, in storm or shine, And for its soft and sole reply, And yet they made the waters start Into his eyes who heard, For they told of a most loving heart, Of a heart that loved though it loved in vain, A love that took an early root Like trees that never grow to fruit, Like ships that sailed for sunny isles, But never came to shore ! THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY. O! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. O! SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom, Their leaves, the earliest of the year, And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause, and lightly tread: Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead. Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain, Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou, who tell'st me to forget, LORD BYRon. |