Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, The skipper he stood beside the helm, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow Then up and spake an old Sailor, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, Colder and louder blew the wind, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, "Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?" "Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!". And he steered for the open sea. 66 "O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf, The breakers were right beneath her bows, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, To see the form of a maiden fair, The salt sea was frozen on her breast, And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord The butler hears the words with pain, Takes slow from its silken cloth again Then said the Lord; "This glass to praise, It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, "Twas right a goblet the Fate should be Kling klang to the Luck of Edenhall!" First rings it deep, and full, and mild, Then like the roar of a torrent wild; Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, The glorious Luck of Edenhall. "For its keeper takes a race of might, It has lasted longer than is right; Kling! klang!-with a harder blow than all As the goblet ringing flies apart, And through the rift, the wild flames start; In storms the foe, with fire and sword; On the morrow the butler gropes alone, He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. "The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside, In atoms shall fall this earthly ball One day like the Luck of Edenhall!" [The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the "shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered, as the ballad leaves it.] |