Whose perfect form reposed at rest Upon his breast with loving trustfulness; While sadly, firmly thus he spake : "Tis better thus to leave thee In this thy home of beauty, Rocked by the breathings of the wind, To dreams of gentle innocence, And by the smiles of morn caressed d; Whilst murmuring bees around Melodious make the balmy air; Than to take thee from thy parent stem, Thou, the most endeared to them! The tenderest, daintiest bloom of all! And bring thee far away with me, Mid scenes full rude Of nature and of men. Though shielded by my fondest care, Could ill endure the noontide sun, My life so sad and desolate, That henceforth all my journey here When cast on such a lonely sea, Speaking thus, he upward stood, His eyes did rest; and in them showed A tender, silent, sad farewell. And disappeared along the path By the sweet memory of a Rose. Composed at Tresco, Isles of Scilly, in the old Coastguard Watchhouse, during the month of April, 1884. It is one of my earliest attempts at Poetry, and therefore I value it on that account, and also for the associations producing and connected therewith. THE FIGUREHEADS. A LONG, low shed; in front a lawn From rocky eminence, beyond And are mirrored in the Lake below, The thirsty creatures round. Here, surrounded by the Sea, We view in silent relic throng, Battered, bruised, and broken, From their conflict with the Ocean; Here from the king his golden crown The monarch billows hurled; and wound The warrior, too, whose sturdy form Now with the monk in garments free, And jolly tars in blue array, With pretty lasses bright and gay, Rest ever by the Sea. What visions do these conjure up ! Whilst deafening cheers on either side The good ship leaves the harbour's mouth, Years speed away, but to that port To soothe the orphans' weary pain, With favour of a father's smile; And win them for a little while Perchance, for days all things went well, And every heart was light; but who can tell Or did the chill sea fog, old Ocean's rime, Envelop her with shadows grime? Till suddenly from out that gloom A vessel cleft them to their doom, Within ten minutes' time. None reached the Shore from off that Wreck, Nor stepped again another deck; Now, only an Old Figurehead Remains in memory of her dead, Who sleep beneath the sounding Sea, As those on downy beds. Others struggled mid the foam, Where the stanch Schiller found her home; Those rugged rocks of dark gray form, Round which the billows and the storm |