From valley green, from leafy tree,
The summer’s wildest warblings rung;
And blossom’d thorn, and spangled lea;
Their freest, sweetest incense flung.
And now, from inland village haste
Those who all-varied nature love,
The fresh’ning sea breeze mild, to taste,
And on the glittering beach to rove.
The ocean almost charmed to rest,
With gentle murmur kissed the shore;
The zephyr’s wing that brush’d its breast
Bore frequent splash of distant oar.
The picture seemed by Nature plann’d,
Therein to group her every charm;
Th’ enthusiast felt his heart expand,
And with unwont emotions warm.
“The rising breeze invites away;
Haste! let us skim the summer tide;
We'll snare the finny brood to day,
While o’er the waters blue we glide”.
All joyfully on board they drew;
And rear’d the mast and spread the sail;
The boat her freedom felt, and flew
Like fawn that scents the mountain gale.
Southward, along the bay they steered,
And gaily, swiftly, ran the time;
Here lay some spot, renowned, endeared,
And there rose Cambria’s hills sublime.
The jocund tale, the cheery song,
To generous converse giving birth,
Bound friendship’s sacred chain more strong.
Friendship that sprang from mutual worth.
Now eve her gauzy veil unfurl’d
Soft as the gossamer ‘twas spun;
Beneath it shrunk the blooming world,
Like maiden— constant gaze to shun.
The song now faint and fainter grew,
And now in distance died away:
Oh, never more that generous few
Shall hail the orient blaze of day!
And many a friend gazed from the shore
And marvelled that they came not yet;
But deem’d to neighbouring port they bore,
Again, at morn, the sail to set.
The dawning brought the fisher’s skiff,
With favouring wind and cloudless sky;
But anxious eye from hill or cliff.
Could nought of other sail descry.
High climb’d the sun the arc of heaven;
The feathered choir sang loud and clear;
All joyed, save those alternate driven
From hope to doubt, from doubt to fear.
All joyed, save those who eyed the main;
Friends, in affection fond, allied:
And village maid, and village swain,
For oh! they were the village pride.
And still they gazed; and some were there
Who deemed the worst, yet did not speak,
Lest hope from gentler hearts they’d tear
And blanch the rose on beauty’s cheek.
And still they gazed along the sand,
Left by the far retreating tide:
“A sail! a sail!” and tow’rd the strand
With anxious, altering steps they hied.
“What tidings—?” “Southward is the boat”
(Tumults of joy the list’ners whelm)
“But ah! though gay with sails, afloat,
No mortal hand to guide the helm!”
Then came the wail: the sob, the shriek
Rose from that erring burst of gladness;
And the tear of joy on feeling’s cheek
Was chased away by floods of sadness.
“Another sail”, she nears the land,
And brings the crewless boat in tow;
Where is her yester joyous band?
Oh I all is hushed and silent now.
Another came; and corpses pale,
Snatch’d from their cold and watery bed,
Too truly told the fatal tale,
And angel-hope for ever fled.
Bid warm, affection ever throw
Around thy heart its tendrils dear,
Thou must respect the widow’s woe,
The brother’s sigh— the orphan’s tear.
For others of that hapless crew
The mourner vainly tidings craves;
Beneath the deep, deep waters blue,
They slept in ocean’s oozy caves,
And how they perished, none can tell,
The boat was found with mast and sail;
There was no storm— no furious swell,
No tongue to give the fatal tale.
Some deemed a sudden gust had rolled
The slender bark down by the lee,
And swept them from their faithless hold,
to struggle on the tiding sea;
To snatch the car or floating spar,
By manly shout to animate,
Till drifted off the boat afar,
Then —one by one— resign to fate!
Oh! what a cheerless sight for him,
Of form robust and unsubdued,
Who found himself the last to swim,
And round the world of waters viewed;
When every human sound was hushed,
And hope with fellowship was gone,
And trackless waves still heavier rushed
To tear him down —unseen— alone!
And others deemed some fatal sand,
Left by the far-retiring tide,
Had lured the gay excursive band
To leave the stranded vessel’s side;
And wand’ring far, that rising wave
Cut off retreat to boat or shore,
And round them raised a living grave,
Amidst the rushing waters’ roar.
Thought shrinks from that appalling hour,
When the green shore so near they viewed,
Where round each home, like Eden’s bower,
The summer’s choicest fruits were strewed—
When nought availed —or strength or art—
the rising, widening firth to stem;
From worlds of love and hope— to part;
For only death was left for them;
When the wide waters rose, and rose,
And met all quivering at their feet,
Impatiently their limbs to close
In their cold foamy winding sheet;
The lingering look to hill and vale,
While thoughts of home their anguish swell;
The prayer— half broken on the gale,
The shake of hands— the mate farewell!
And did they fear to yield their breath,
When hanging on fates’ awful brink?
Not for themselves they feared; from death
Why should the good, the honest, shrink?
But for those lov’d ones did they grieve,
Whose joys, whose lives were wrapt in theirs;
For oh! ‘twas anguish— those to leave
To the wide world —its wrongs— its cares!
And higher still the waters leapt
No eye to see— no hand to save,
Till from their footing sidelong swept,
They sank beneath the closing wave—
Know’st thou the pure delights that flow,
From charity —from noble deeds:
Oh blame not then the poor man’s woe,
Whose heart for generous Crathorne bleeds.
Unlike the sot, in gilded chair,
Who has no ear for misery’s knock,
Till gaping crowds can see him spare,
A pittance from his hoarded stock.
‘Twas his the cottage latch to lift,
To tend the bed of pain and care—
Enough —Heaven registered the gift
Borne thither in the poor man’s prayer.
Nor wife nor child left he behind
To mourn his melancholy doom;
His family was all mankind.
And thousand eyes bedew his tomb.
But oh! how wretched, how forlorn,
Those left to griefs severest weight,
Who, his companions from them torn,
Lament their fathers’, husbands’ fate.
Did fond affection ever throw
Around thy heart its tendrils dear,
Thou must respect the widow’s woe—
The brother’s sigh, the orphan’s tear.
From Peter Whittle, Marina; or, An Historical and Descriptive Account of Southport, Lytham, and Blackpool (Preston: Peter and Henry Whittle, 1831), p.69 https://archive.org/details/marinaoranhisto00whitgoog/page/n69/mode/1up.
Image: “Wreck” by Medhi