Poems (David)/Harold, the Wanderer
HAROLD, THE WANDERER.
PART THE FIRST.
THE anchor's weighed, the noble sails are set,And with a parting tear young Harold's cheeks are wet;His eyes were dim as he watched the fading strand,And with a lonely heart, he leaves his native land:Perhaps for many years a wanderer to roam,Far from his country, kindred, friends, and home!—Lonely and sad he leans o'er the vessel's side,Watching the sea gulls as they playfully dive,Unconscious that any kind friend is nearSilently watching the fast flowing tear.A hand is lightly on his shoulder pressed,And by a stranger's voice he is thus addressed:—"Poor boy!—Thou seemest sad and lonely here,Banish such sad thoughts, and dry those bitter tears! Is there aught that Ernold can do or sayTo clear thy path, and smooth thy rugged way?"These words he spoke with such a gentle grace,That Harold gazed in the kind speaker's face,And thought some angel from the skyHad flown from thence to earth, and hovered nigh!As the sun light fell on his flaxen hair,His form seemed so beautiful, bright, and fair:His clear grey eye, so calm and mild,And around his face, played a winning smile.Harold told him how he had left his home,O'er the wide world a lonely wand'rer to roam,Regardless of all earthly bonds and ties;And of his mother spoke with tears and sighs!—"Harold," cried Ernold, "I will be your friend;Wherever thy wandering steps may tend."
Time flies by, and-the surging channels past,The ocean broad is gained at last;New hopes now play in Harold's hazel eye,His heart is light, and now no longer sighs;New thoughts, new hopes, can find a restIn his young and ardent breast.His trouble o'er, he can now happy beAs he sails on the broad and boundless sea! 'Twas midnight, when o'er the vessel's side, two figures leant,Watching the phosphorescent lights that were o'er the ocean sent.Admidst the cordage the night winds softly play,And the moon-beams are dancing in their fitful way.The lovely southern cross gleams in the azure skyAnd Orion's bright belt salutes their watchful eye,All peaceful, fair, calm, and so serene,And seem more beautiful than summer's noon-tide dream."Oh! Harold, how I love these heavenly tropic scenes!—They seem so lovely, and to me so sereneIn their lone beauty; so calm and still,—Nothing so much on earth speaks of the Almighty willAs this grand, yet lone, and pathless deep,When the moon and stars their midnight vigils keep.""Oh! Ernold, I also love these splendid tropic nights;They seem to me so beautious, fair, and bright."
The morning came, all was bright and fair,The albatross was wheeling in the upper air,With eagle eye its ward and watch to keep, O'er the face of the calm and quiet deep.The glorious sun's first golden raysO'er the bright waters danced and played.The noble ship, like a tired gull at rest,On the broad ocean's boundless breast,Her canvass flapped against the mast,As the slightest breeze came past,To rouse her from that quiet sleep.And, as Harold watched the tranquil deepHe thought of his mother and his home,And wondered he had ever learnt to roam.Oh! how he longed to wander o'er his native hill side,The valley so green so beautiful, and wide,—To hear the tinkling of sheep bells o'er the lea,And mark the faint blue line o'er the distant sea.Then young Harold gave a long drawn sigh,And the tear drops fell, yet he knew not why.As a light breeze came gently past,The drooping sails fly out from the mast;Then there came the sailor's fitful song,And swiftly the vessel flies along.Back she flings the glittering spray,As the good ship pursues her lonely way.
'Tis evening, and Harold is watching the gathering clouds, And the thunder reverberates long and loud;Neither moon nor stars in the heavens are seen,But in the far west the fork'd lightening's gleam.The stormy petrel, startled from his rest,Skims o'er the rising billows' foaming crest."Ernold," said he, "this bodes a fearful night,There's not a star our course to guide or light!—Oh! Ernold, how I fear the tempestuous blast,And I shudder as each rising wave comes past!""Remember, Harold, there is One that ever keepsA watchful eye on all when on the pathless deep."Now there comes the storm's first piercing wail,—A moment!—and the vessel flies before the gale!Around her yards St. Elmo's fitful fires play,As with bare poles she speeds upon her way.Now she mounts some giant waveYawning as though 'twould be her grave.Back the glittering foam she throws,Then sinking in the billows trough,And dashing back the cloud of spray,Once more speeds on her lonely way.A thunder peal!—A lurid flash!—The tall mast falls with a sudden crash;Then o'er her sweeps a mountain wave,—Carrying young Ernold to a sailor's grave!A shriek rings through the raging storm, As the waters close o'er his dying form.'Tis vain that Harold springs to savePoor Ernold from his ocean grave!—With a tearful eye he listens to the wild surge,Chanting his lost companion's dirge:The drops that glitter on his cheek,Of all his heartfelt grief bespeak.Deeply he mourns his lost companion's fateAnd his own lonely and friendless state.For three long days they flew before the storm,And by the ocean currents swiftly borne;The gale still raging, all was dark and drear,—No human arm, or kindly help was near.Sea after sea now dashing o'er her deck,Threatening each moment to make the poor ship a wreck.Her sails now torn by the fearful blast,The winds howling hideously thro' cordage and mast.Now struck by a sea, which made every timber quake,A fearful shriek was heard, as over-board went our mate,—Like a bird she still flew o'er each mountain wave,All anxiously hoping their lives might be saved,—When the watch cried aloud "There are breakers a-head,"— Their hearts within sunk, feeling nigh dead!Engulphed in the billows, dashed a wreck on the shore,Poor Harold lay senseless as if ne'er to rise more,
When Harold revived, the gale was o'er,The winds were hushed, the waters raged no more;The sea, now calm, broke gently on the beach;He watched the gulls fly almost within his reach.As he sat on a rock, that long unhappy day,Upon his bare head the sun poured down its scorching ray;—His brain on fire, hideous objects pass'd before his eyes,—Horrid sounds too he fancied, mingling with fearful cries!His mind now wand'ring, oft his mother's name would cry,Then ask her hand.—"Your hand, dear mother! near you I would die."
The day past by, night came and went,And yet no earthly aid was sent;For three long nights, and two long days,Harold lingered in this fearful way,Until he almost envied his comrades' graves Beneath the bright and sparkling waves.The third day he arose from his rocky bed,With the sun still scorching his shelterless head.He gazed o'er the sea, and to his joy saw a ship,And cries of delight, burst from his parched lip;His heart almost sunk as he heard himself speak,As his voice had become so fearfully weak!—Oh! he watched the good ship, as onward she came,It gave him new strength;—his hopes were not vain.Near and still nearer, to the rock she drew;A boat is let down, manned with a gallant crew;—Raising himself up, breathing a heartfelt prayer,Thanking God from his soul, that his life had been spared.Saved from danger! Death! and wreck,Once more he treads a good ship's deck,—Bright Hope has wove her golden webAs the future lies before him spread.In the fairest colours gaily drest,New objects excite his ardent breast;And Harold, from his earliest youth,Had sought in every legend truth;Yet did not appear to understandThe width that fancy's dreams could span.He loved to hear the seamen tellOf the rash "Whistler's" dreaded spell; And of the "Phantom Frigate's" form,That shot like an arrow through the storm;When the wild winds come sweeping pastBending before it the stoutest mast!—Amidst the wild roar of the deep and sky,The harbinger of woe comes sweeping by;With well braced yards, and well filled sails,The "Phantom Ship" flies before the gale!
Time flies on, the boundless ocean past,And Little Free Town is gained at last.There it lies, both fair and bright,Draped in a flood of golden light.When the sun's first brilliant raysGild the waters as they play,The lovely river flowing calmly down,With luxuriant meadows for miles around;—While the passing clouds find a restOn some distant hilly crest,—Surrounded with every thing so green,Made all as lovely as a summer's dream.
PART THE SECOND.
FAREWELL, to Africa; farewell to thy forests dark and drear; Another land I seek, and another hemisphere,Where broad majestic rivers flow,And the lovely orchis delights to grow,Amidst the wild luxuriant forest green,By human eye scarce ever seen;Or where the monstrous condor roves,Midst the lofty Andes' everlasting snows!Once more alone on the boundless deep,—The winds just risen from their sleep,The land long faded away on the lee—Harold's once more on the wide, wide sea;Not a friend to guide, comfort, or stayThe youthful wanderer on his weary way.Three months having fled, the Atlantic past,Rio's lovely bays are gained at last.The tropic breeze comes sweet and soft,And Harold now seats himself aloft,Watches the constant changing scenes below,The small skiffs darting to and fro,White homesteads scattered thro' the treesThat wave and rustle in the gentle breeze.Now taking a glimpse of some far bay,Or mountain ravine, too far away.Thro' this glorious scene glides the noble ship,Till the anchor falls with a sudden dip,And now at rest she safely lay, In Rio's bright and lovely bay!One evening as he strolled along the shore,And wandered on for a mile or more,He suddenly came to a lovely bay,Where at anchor a stately frigate lay,—In all her pride of conscious strength,With the pennon fluttering at its length.He saw a boat shoot round the rocky shore,The white foam falling from their oarsIn sheets of white and glittering sheen,Bathed in the southern moon's pale beam,Steadily watching them with great delightAround the bay, until out of sight."'Tis now a year since I left my home,O'er the wide world a wanderer to roam!The frigate perchance may be homeward bound,I long once more to tread on English ground,—Rio is reached, and now once more I'm freeTo leave or linger, where'er my choice may be.There's no friend here to bid me stayIn this fair land and lovely bay;And what care I where'er I roam,As long as I can find a happy home!Farewell! to Rio's lovely bay,—Adieu, adieu!—for many a day!"Each stout yard's securely braced, The white sails hoisted to their place.Now the ponderous anchor's rising;Thro' the shrouds the breeze is sighing.Now there comes the sailor's song,By the waters gently borne along.
SAILOR'S SONG.LOOK out my boys for the glorious breeze That's creeping soft and gently past,And see how her swelling sails Fly out from her bended mast!
CHORUS.
Now for the ocean broad and free! Now for the wide and trackless sea! Cheerily, brothers, heave ho! Cheerily, brothers, heave ho!
Oh! see how our noble ship Is impatient of her rest;With the wild winds she longs to wrestle, And seeking to do her best!
CHORUS.
Now for the ocean broad and free! Now for the wide and trackless sea! Cheerily, brothers, heave ho! Cheerily, brothers, heave ho!
Just look how the glittering spray Is starting into foam,—Hurrah, hurrah! we'll bear away, For dear old England our home!
CHORUS.
Now for the ocean broad and free! Now for the wide and trackless sea! Cheerily, brothers, heave ho! Cheerily, brothers, heave ho!
The fair Pacific is gained at last,A tropic breeze comes sweeping past,The winds now well filling every sail,Onward she sped before the balmy gale.As Harold was leaning o'er her bow,Alas! how little did he expect or knowThe dark clouds of bitter grief and sorrowThat o'er his head so soon would hover.Suddenly a hand upon his arm was pressed,And by a gentle voice was thus addressed:—"Why, Harold, I ne'er thought to have found thee here!Am I deceived?—Is it my friend Harold de Vere?"Harold turned, and started from his place,And once more gazed on his old companion's face. "Oh! Edwin, Edwin, can it really be?"He exclaimed in a burst of wild, and joyous glee."Knowest thou aught of those I love at home?And why thus a wanderer dost thou roam?""Like thee, dear Harold, I loved the sea,It ever had a magic charm for me.A wild adventurous life I sought,With hardships and with dangers fraught.It was this, and this alone, that made me roamFrom my native land, and much loved home!""Edwin, thou hast some fatal tale to tell!By thy pale face, I know it well.""Oh! Harold, one that thou didst love has found a restWith the good, the Godly, and the blest!Alas! dear Harold, thy gentle mother sleepsWhere the old yew tree spreads her branches o'erThe graves of those who died before.Thy mother rests beside the old church door!She dreamt and felt that thou hadst found a graveBeneath the wild and foaming wave!"Harold then gave a piercing shriek,Then looked as if dumb,—he could not speak,—Comfort and friendship alike were spurned;Though living,—he looked as if to marble turned.Harold had landed on a lovely isle On which the ocean seemed to smile;Inviting the lonely wanderer to stay,And pursue no more his weary way!While Harold was resting in the shade,Above him the palm trees proudly wave;The rippling waves now glittering at his feet,All nature looking in a calm and balmy sleep.There was something so soothing, so serene;The past appeared to rise before him as a dream!As he watched the waves break gently on the sandy shore,Thoughts of the past returned to his mind once more.Dear friends now buried in the cold grave,And others sleeping b'neath the restless wave;Lips long silent seemed to speak!—Eyes that were closed, once more to weep.The loved, and the lost,—arose again!*********
Time has passed by; six months have sped;Unmarked by Harold have they fled.Ah! there is a change in Harold's face,For pain and grief have found a placeIn that once bright and ardent breast,Where other thoughts have found a rest. His joyous song is heard no more,And his brow more shaded than of yore,—His merry laugh is subdued and hushed,And his cheek is marked with a feverish flush;His elastic tread, become slow and weak,Of his future fate it too well bespeaks!"Harold, how evenly yon waters seem to flow,With many a fathom far belowThe seaweed and painted shells lie spread,With the zoophytes on their sandy bed;While to the seaweed's graceful fronds,The pearl-forming ostrea is clinging on.""Edwin, they are bright and fair;There are pearls more pure, more rareThan the fairest formed 'neath tropic seas.Oh! Edwin, there are richer pearls than these;They are not hidden in the ocean caves,They are not sunk under fathomless waves;Pearls of price, that none need buy,—They are given to all that for them cry!Cling to the 'Word' from thy earliest youth,And ever delight in its 'Sacred Truth';—It will prove thy guide and stayThrough life's dark and rugged way!Edwin, alas! I soon shall find a rest,In yon wide ocean's stormy breast." "Oh! Harold, wilt thou break my heart?I cannot bear to think that we must part.""Hush, Edwin! I shall ne'er see moreMy mountain vale, or native shore;For, Edwin, I shall find a graveBeneath the bright Pacific's wave."
Another month having passed away,And thoughtfully, as poor Harold lay,With his brow, as of old, calm and still,—All speaking of that quiet willThat lived within his gentle breast,Which seemed so lovely in its rest!—Harold, awaking, after a few hours' sleep,Found his dear companion at his feet,"Oh! Edwin, it was only, then, a dream!—It seemed so heavenly and so serene,So bright, so joyous, and so gay!Ah! Edwin, all has passed away.—I thought she called me to that heavenly shoreWhere pain and sorrow are known no more!"Harold, raising himself in his bed,Paused!—and then he gently said,"Yes, dear mother! I'll fly to thee,O'er mountain and vale, o'er land and sea!"Edwin, trembling with fear, and much alarmed— As Harold sank dying in his youthful arms.His cheeks now bore the hue of death,As quick and fast came his fleeting breath.Edwin, dear Edwin!" he said at last,With eyes filled with tears, and hands firmly clasp'd,"The dark valley I have reached, all soon will have passed!"Now, struggling, he placed his cold lips to Edwin's ear,And whispered his blessing in a voice low and clear."I go to a better world than this!To the Home of Everlasting Bliss!"—A last fond look!—a gasp,—a gentle sigh—His heart then ceased to beat—poor Harold died.All now was o'er; his soul to heaven had fled;Harold the wanderer was numbered with the "Dead"!
In after years Edwin's thoughts would dwellOn the sailor boy he had loved so well,The youthful wanderer, who had found a graveBeneath the bright Pacific's wave!