Читать книгу Canadian Battlefields, and Other Poems - J. R. Wilkinson - Страница 21

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All along the sea-lines dreary,

Dark and threatening the storm arose;

And shadows appalling crept o’er us,

Disturbed was the ocean’s repose!

And madly it leaped upon us,

Engulfed in a deadly gloom,

As the sea’s tumultuous fury

Hurled our ship on to certain doom!

Wrecked on the vastness of ocean,

Cast up on an isle remote,

Storm-worn by the roll of centuries,

By the billows savagely smote—

An interminable expansion

Of stern dreariness all around,

Indescribable desolation,

And a weird solitude profound!

And this forever before me,

Wearing my spirit away;

God’s hand seems heavy upon me,

And I’m very weary to-day.

And ever a fair face haunts me,

White hands that put coldly away—

Are ye beckoning over the ocean?

Is regret in thy bosom to-day?

And through the weirdness of night-time

I hear the moaning, incessant roar

Of the waves, that ever repeateth,

Sobbingly, “Lanore, nevermore!”

Thus through my feverish dreaming

It evermore seemeth to me

That her name forever is murmured

By the lonesome voice of the sea.

And thus I’m wearily waiting

The rescue, that never comes,

Alone on this desolate islet

The mariner distantly shuns;

Straining my worn eyes out ever

O’er the dreary wastes of the sea;

But no ship—no ship e’er cometh,

And pleading hope dieth in me.

Aye, nothing but sky and ocean,

Encircling me everywhere,

And the boom and swash of the billows,

And the sun’s incessant glare!

This only by day and by day,

This for the years on years,

Alone, in the wilds of the ocean,

Worn out with despair and tears.