Original Poetry.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 771, 20 August 1873, Page 3

Original Poetry.

THE NORTHFtaET. The Northfleet's away, she seems like a stee-1. That bounds with delight the moment 'tis freol, As she ploughs through the break of the white crested foam, Or playfully rolls on her own ocean home. Majestic she rides o'er the now rising sea, Buoyant and ligh f , for the winds they are free. They freshen, they rise, they blow to a gale. When her now careful pilot cries, "Hands, shorten sail." But that dark cloud a-head of the ship in her- path A gloom on the face of the old man has cast;

lie watches the clouds that now slowly creep FroJi out of the depths of the dark distant deep. It ri- es, it threatens, it's standing at bay. It seems as awaiting, prepared for the prey. Cut there's joy in the ship for the winds louder blow, The nearer the cloud, the fiercer they grow. Close reef the topsails, the canvass now stow, The Northfleet's secure above and below,

For the storm has arose in its fury and might, And the ship like a phantom seems in its flight Through the sea that's illumn'd by the light'nings that play Through the cloud that now in dreadful array Its furies unmask, its thunders unfurl, When the shrieking winds broken to their sources are hurl'd. And the now liecalm'd ship alone on the sea, Friendless is toss'd—her fatal decree Is knell'd in the low muffled thunders that roll, That no powers above npr below can control. For the fates have decreed, the die is now cast, She trembles beneath the merciless blast, That breaks from the cloud in thunders it roars, In volumus couipress'd its fury it poors, On the now fated ship that runs for the bay Where the herald awaits to point where she'll lay, For the spot has been mark'd by compass and line, And the ship's at her berth to the second of time. Her anchor is cast, her sails are secured ; The cliain is paid out, the Northfleet is moored, And joy again it has returned, the ship securely rides, The storm is soon forgotten, its terrors now have died. They dance, and sing, and drink again, to sweethearts and to wives, Or some relate, whilst laughter rings, their part and merry lives. But darkness creeps deep, the night it has set in, The sound of mirth is ceased aboard, all is now hush'd within. The lonely watch that guard the deck has struck the fatal bell That tolls the hour, the fatal hour, the Northfleet's fate is knell'd ; 9 And yonder demons of the deep the sound have heard afar, Their fiery ships in motion they mount upon its car. Their fiend hearts elated, they revel in their glee, As they glare upon their fated prey, those monsters

of the sea. They hear their helpless victim, whose mortal freight jt lays, In peaceful slumbers dreaming, may be of better days; Or weary now they wander back U) their humble

homes, Where the heart it loves to linger where ever they

may roam. But that fearful crash the dreamers have awoke, The awful truth upon their senses broke. The groaning ship now feels the fatal blow, The rushing waters in her hold they show— Her wounds proclaim—-her frantic inmates run Upon her decks, the stampede has begun. The tiends on the car retreating from the shock, Their vain attempts for help, for mercy, mock. They hear their cries that roll'along the wave, They leave to perish where they could have sav'd. Her burning lights alx>ve, around are hurl'd, Imploring help from a deadened world. The boats are lowered, the ship is sinking fast, The fatal bride has bid her first adieu and last

To husband brave as ever troil the deck of ship or laud, A son, an ornament, of England That now arose, appeared like meteor flame, Or as «n avenging angel came. In that d irk hour when woman weak, Wa? t»~ m >led under coward's feet, W! e shrieks of terror and despair Cou.mingled in the darkeu'd air; The bitter jtast the future too Like hideous panorama view Arise before their awaken'd eyes That adds new terror to their cries. Before this rolling human flood The young commander bravely stood ; His fiery blood is up, it flows Through swelling veins that strengthen'd grows, Dreadful in his rage he stands The pride, the glory of his laud. Before t'te world a model bright, A king of men in arnlour bright. •'Tis over uow, the struggle's past, The few are saved, the many lost, And morning breaks upon the bay, The ship is there, but where are they ? Upper Shotover. W. B.

LINES ON VISITING HOLY ISLAND. Merrily ! merrily ! onr little'skiff Bounds o'er the foaming spray, One glance to the shore, and the sunny sky, And then away ! away ! With hearts as light, and spirits as tree, As the breeze that curls that summer sea. The little sparkling wavelets leap, To meet that joyous ray. And dance on the breast of the giant deep Tike lambs in sportive play ; And farther, as if in more wanton wile, They curl round the rocks of St Cuthbert's Isle. Where nightly 'tis said, by the list'ning deep, Alike in calm and storm, Unheeding the night-winds that round him sweep, Is seen St. Cuthbert's form. Framing those beads which legends tell Lindisfarne's vestals lov'd bo welL Now soaring away from his airy nest We've scared the wild sea-mew, He dare not tempt with his snowy breast His native ocean's blue. But, shrieking, wheels as to scare, but in vain, Those wanderers bold on his wide domain. But, say, what ruined pile is yon That tow'ra so huge and grey, Has it no tale of other years Of glory pass'd away ? Aye ! well, on it one glance you turn— Thn proud Abbey of Lindisfaroe. Ah, little boots it now to tell Of that proud abbey's pow'r, How o'er the wave the vesper bell Was heard at evening hour ; Or organ's hallowed symphony. Enough ; those long have passed away. Now sadly o'er the young and fair Those walls tall shadows sweep, Where many a young heart buried there The hopes it scarce might weep, And meekly strove, tho' oft in vain To tear from earth the ling'ring chain. And many a proud sp'rit sought that rest By guilt and passiun driv'u, Whose thoughts beneath his sable vest Could tell of aught hut Heav'n ; And there 'twss whispered deeds were done That might not brook that glorious sun. Peace to their ashes, they sleep well, 'Neath each cross sculptural stone The only voice their dirge to swell That wild sea-lireezo's moan : If they have crr'd, they have their doom— Not ours to mock their loualy tomb. M.A.C.