Original Poetry.

Wellington Independent, Volume XVII, Issue 1839, 7 March 1863, Page 5

Original Poetry.

THE WEECK OF THE " ORPHEUS." Tbe busy marts of Sydney Look gloomily to-day ; A cloud seems brooding on tbe shore A shadow o'er the bay ; And every brow is darken'd And pale is every cheek As shuddering hearers catch the words Of those who dread to speak. And well may pulses flutter, And well may cheeks grow pale ; The whisper'd tidings of the hour Might bid the sternest quail. Tbey tell of ripen'd manhood, Of youth in early bloom Of pious zeal, and valour's fire O'erwhelm'd by sudden doom: Of friends whom late we greeted But ne'er may greet again— Of twice fourscore true fiiitish hearts All cold beneath the main ! How gaily speeds the good sbip Along the sunlit sea ! The wave swept-har of M anakau Lies broad upon her lee— Behind it spreads her haven ; The Master, chart in hand Thro' channels mark'd iu other years, Heads inward for the land. But woe betide the false chart, Thut told its tale amiss, And made the truth of oiher days The mocking lie of this 1 And woe betide the false breeze, That blew so fresh and light, Yet uiged the long green billows on Before iis voice of might— And woe betide the false sea That smiled buc to betray, And told uot where the fatal bauk Lay ambush'd ou tbe way. Oue shock— as when the earthquake Lpheaves a groauiug land — Her stern hangs wav'ring in the surge, Her oows are deep in sand. Back — back the lab'ring engines 2 ± The huge steam-giants fail To move her 'gainst ihe mighty swell That roll's bpfore the gale. Alas ! the gallant Orpheus 1 She lies a pros mite wreak : The surges climb her lofty side Aud tbune'ring sweep the deck. But not a British seaman In that dread moment quail'd, Nor waver'd ancient discipline, Nor duty's impulse fail'd. Eaoh took bis post of danger .As prompt ,as on parade ; Each signal, tho' at cost of life, Was fearlessly obey'The boats were manned in silence ; No voice from high or low Repined or questiou'd at the word That bade them stay or go. Tbe launoh has fill'd and founder'd With all her noble crew — ■ Huriah ! for those two happier barks That yet shall save their few. Away they speed for succour ; Hope gleams, but Fate is nigh; The few go fonh to toil in vain, The many wait — to die. The weary hours crept onward The waves broke fierce aud fast ; And fainter waxed the hands, that clung By Blipp'ry shroud or mast. Yet ere the good ship parted A ringing, pealißg cry The voice of souls that knew not fear Went up from sea to sky. A shout, as when our foemeu Disheartened in the fray Before the shock of Briiish steel Becoil and shriuk away. Tben spoke the gallant Burnett — No meaner voice was heard— '.' God's mercy on our parting souls !" So raug the latest word. And he who heard and telis it, In fancy long shall hear Dim echoes of that proud farewell, That thrice-repeated cheer. Then Game an awful silence, A hush ap of the grave, Save one deep tone — the ocean's moan , Above the dying brave. Without one shriek or murmur, As men who «* fall ou sleep," They gave their spirits up to God, Their bodies to the deep. It is not when our squadrons In furious onset olose, When man to man and foot to foot They mingle with their foes. When rolls tbe deafuing volley And war-clouds dim the airIt is not theu that best is known What British hearts can dare. For then the lust of combat That lurks in ev'ry breast, The tiger instinct of our kind Is raging unrepress'd. And friends are nigh, to cheer ui, And foes to taunt our flight — He scarce were man, who shrank from Death Amid the press of fight. But wheu the King of Terrors Comes slowly, stride by stride. The valiant front the stern advance, The feeble bleach aside. Aud they are more than victors In worse than battle's strife Who swerve no step from duty's path Altho' the bribe life, We cannot chose but sorrow, Tho' trembling Faith suggest There ia a Lord of life and death Aud what He wills is best We cannot choose but sorrow— A nation's tears muot flow, And yearnings deep of kiudred love Outlast the publio wee. But Time shall briug to anguish A sure tho' slow relief, And mellow into soft regrets The bitter wine of grief. Tben many a British mourner With tearful pride shall tell Of trophies in an unfought field Of valour proved to well. The heroes of tbe Orpheus Shall have their meed of fame Wherever floats the British flag, Or sounds the British name. I, too, would twine a garland Of simple, fading flowers, And lay it humbly on the tomb Of those whose fame is ours : Who own'd no selfish murmur,. Who drew no coward breath; To Honor, Faiih, and Duty true, Tho* "face to face with Death." •*.& M* Herald » *