LOSS OF THE STEAMER CITY OFF DUNEDIN.

Wellington Independent, Volume XX, Issue 2219, 15 June 1865, Page 5

LOSS OF THE STEAMER CITY OFF DUNEDIN.

'Tis winter, and tlie cliilly breeze Sweeps by with fitful moan, It battles with fast rising seas, Whilst trembling forests groan ; The angry scud o'er dark'ning skies Flits on in weird-like form, Proclaiming, as it onward flies, The advent of a storm. All sea-gulls now, with rapid haste, Their brine- washed pinions ply, And swiftly o'er the wat'ry waste Their course they shove -vard hie. There was a ship — a noble ship, A ship oi' gallant mein — Which oft had made a coasting trip, Propelled by wind and steam. The time has come — she must away ; The ponderous wheels more round ; She sails on this eventful day — For Nelson she is bound. But now the storm hath broken forth In its terrific force, And on the vessel spends its "wriitli, To stay her on her course. Dark night succeeds the parting day — The trembling steamer quakes. As o'er her drives the clashing spray, Hissing like angry snakes. Assaulted by succeeding seas, The toi'tured vessel rolls ; Wliile o'er her shrieks the whirring breeze, Like moans from doomed souls. Eacli wheel alternate spins in air, And next is buried deep ; The engine scarce the strain can bear — None in that ship dare sleep : Yet still she nobly struggles on, . Till with tremendous crash, Proclaiming something now has gone — A paddle goes to smash ! No longer can the engine strive— The sea its effort mock3 ; Fast doth the fated vessel drive Towards adamantine rocks. " Quick, loose the sails !" the captain cries. Alas ! of what avail ; No sooner loose — the canvas3 flies To ribbons in the gale. Assaulted by the angry deep, What can men do or say ? The treach'rous waves exultant leap To claim their writhing prey. Cape Terawili's rocks appear Amid the boiling foam : Ona shriek, which Grod alone doth hear ! And souls are going home ! Home to the Grod who gave them breath, They're speeding on their way ; Their bodies sleep the sleep of death Until the final day ; For not a soul is left to tell The horror-striking tale Of all that on that night bofel In that terrific gale. Some portions of the wreck that float Are washed up on the shore, And in dumb silence, they denote^ The vessel is no more. " In midst of life we are in death," So let us humbly pray, When G-od doth take our vital breath, We may not fear the day. Edward Allexot, Christclnu'ch, June 6, 1865.