Poems (David)/The Last of the Gascoignes

by Edith Mary David

THE LAST OF THE GASCOIGNES.

A BOAT sped from the sandy shore,And a proud and noble form it bore,—Tall, and lithe, and so full of grace,With a haughty look on his handsome face!The clustering curls of his dark brown hairGracefully waved in the summer air:In his hazel eye there seemed ever to layHope as strange and varied as the day.An Orphan Boy from his earliest year,With none to love him or hold him dear:—Cast amongst strangers, Gascoigne's lifeWas spent in a home of war and strife!And when sixteen years had passed away,Life's open page before him lay.—The past appeared as a painful dream,Unlit, by even a gladdening beam!—The hand of faith had not yet torn apartThe shadows that darken his youthful heart. Watching the sea gulls cleaving the foam,Around the fine bows of his future home!Over her hull he cast his dark eyes,Then glancing them upward to the skies,Paused a moment, earnestly to viewThe binding ropes both stout and true.How little he dreamt of danger or wreck,As he stood on the frigate's noble deck!Bidding farewell to his native land,Gascoigne now sails for a distant strand.Suddenly there breaks upon his listening ear,In tones both loud, distinct and clear,Borne on the breeze of the dancing main,Words of a wild and mournful strain:—Listening a moment, they passed awayLike floating clouds on a summer's day,—"I know not why—that unhappy laySweeps like an arrrow o'er my youthful brain!"As Gascoigne spoke, the singer turned his face,So mild, so gentle, in all its quiet grace;—It seemed too pure for earth or sea,So saint-like in its sweet tranquility!"Who art thou?" now Gascoigne wildly cried,Springing to the youthful singer's side."My name," said the boy, "is Allan Grey:"—All reserve in an instant passed away. With a tear-drop glistening in his dark eye,Sadly prefaced with a heart-felt sigh:—"Mother used to sing in that gentle strain;And when I sing I ever think of her again;When I am on the wild and stormy sea,She will never forget to pray for me."He paused, and Gascoigne, sighing, said,"My Mother, Allan, is mingled with the dead;—I alone am left of all my noble race!"A cloud then passed o'er Gascoigne's downcast face."Oh! Allan, all my short and youthful life,Unhappily spent midst care and strife.There's a fearful curse upon our fated race,That even denotes the time—the very placeWhere the last Gascoigne shall early die!"He then ceased to speak, with a long drawn sigh."Gascoigne, I know not what you mean to say,"Exclaimed the much startled Allan Grey."Allan, it is to thee alone that I will tellAll that weird and most fatal spell!They say that many long years ago,A Gascoigne fought a much hated foe,His proud rival's fair and lovely brideReceived a fearful wound in her side,Striving in vain her husband's life to save!Alas! both now lie buried in one grave;— And with the last breath she ever drew,O'er our race a fearful spell she threw:Prophesying too truthfully the coming fateOf the last of the Gascoignes' fallen state.'Thrice the raven shall be heard to callRound the proud towers of Ashton Hall,Thrice the screech owl shall spread her wingAnd thrice her wild midnight warning sing,—At that weird hour, with none near by,Thou, Sir Knight, shalt foully die,—The last of thy race shall pass awayIn the full vigour of his early day!'"

Days, weeks, and months, fly swiftly by;Gascoigne was now under an alien sky,Claiming but one true and faithful friend,A brave and noble sailor, named Martin Brend.No one knew his history, save that heWas early pressed and sent to sea.Yet so calm and gentle was his mienThat better days he must have seen,—His looks and language were too refinedTo be the index of a vulgar mind.On a fine clear and moonlight night,The stars were shining fair and bright;The frigate lay at rest alone.—Becalm'd The soft air felt like Love's own balm.Phosphorescent bands passed o'er the sea,Nothing breaking its calm tranquility!Looking once more on the boundless mainHe turned to Martin, then spoke again:—"Oh! Martin, how balmy is the midnight air,The moon-lit deep is so lovely and fair;One would think that yon glist'ning wavesBore the Peres from their bright ocean caves.Yes, mark yon bright and beauteous star,High as it is and from earth so far,—Oh! does it not look calm and gently down?Seeming to watch the earth and sea around.As a messenger of God it appears to meAn omen of happiness I hope to see!I know not why so silent and still a voiceShould now make my lonely heart rejoice."

MARTIN'S TALE."Gascoigne, a tale of grief is mine,In it a warning voice you may find;Born in a country where the proud forest treesSighed, and bent to every gentle breeze,And when eighteen summers I had seen,Sorrow had ne'er shed a passing gleam. My mother, no longer young, used to prayThat I would cherish her declining day.Alas! how little did we think or knowOf the sad and fearful coming blowThat hovered o'er our once happy home!Returning one day from a distant field,I found my mother busy at her spinning wheel:Suddenly and wildly starting to her feet,She sprang before me with a piercing shriek.It was the press-gang. I soon was seized;My mother wept, imploring on her kneesThey would spare her son, her only child.The cruel leader of the press-gang only smiled;My mother's skirt, alas! I vainly clasped,It only yielded to my agonising graspAs on the ground my mother senseless lay.Resistance proved vain, and I was torn away.Weeks passed by, and since that painful scene,Which seemed like the action of a fearful dream,To distant lands in a noble ship we sailed,Borne on by many a rough and gentle gale.We reached the fair West Indian islesThat are wreathed by many a subtle smile,Laying robed in such tempting, winning charmsOn the wide ocean so soft and calm.Days, weeks, and months flew swiftly by, Yet beneath those lovely tropic skiesI sadly sighed for my former home,And oft I longed the time would comeWhen I once more might cross the main,And to my lonely mother return again.But time sped on, three years flew byEre my native land I once more descried.Soon to my joy our longed-for port was gained,And not a star in our course had waned;And almost I cheered as I stood once moreUpon my own dearly loved and native shore.I waited a week, to me of endless days,Then proceeded happy on my homeward way.Mile after mile I journeyed so swiftly on,Until the haven of all my hopes was won.How green and fair were the waving trees,After sailing so long on the wild and lonely seas!Oh! how I longed 'midst their shadeTo traverse each fairy and sylvan glade.Onward I sped upon my lonely way,When at the close of a lovely summer's day,I stood a wanderer, and as I thought alone,Before the threshold of my early home.Alas! all the bright illusions of my dream,So changed, had passed across the scene;Unhinged and broken I found the little gate, And the garden, too, was now a tangled brake,With here a rose, or there a starry jessamineAmongst its ferny thickets now wildly twine,And I saw the spot where my poor mother laySenseless when I was from her torn away.My own favourite seat I found was gone.Like some weird spectre, pale and wan,Arose the dear and old familiar apple tree,Swinging its branches in the evening breezeLike some poor ghost of long passed days.The evening now was falling dark and grey,But, alas! for me, I now cared not for repose,I was so crushed by that sad and sudden blow.There, still clinging to the old cottage wall,And climbing upwards, so wild and tall,Bearing now but an expanded single flower,And half hidden by a leafy bower,A solitary moss-rose there shelter'd grew,—Swift to the spot with eager haste I flew,—There my loved mother planted it for me,Many long years before I went to sea.I well remember how she took my hand,Guiding me lovingly where the tree now stands,Smiling fondly at the burst of youthful gleeWith which I hailed the birthday gift to me.Plucking the half closed flower from its rest, I placed it on my poor and aching breast.Suddenly, I heard a gentle voice beside me,Exclaiming, 'Poor boy, what ill betides thee?'Starting, I turned, and saw a furrow'd face,It was the good, kind pastor of the place.I paused, and ere to him I could reply,He turned on me his calm and kind grey eye.Speaking in a voice like the best and fondest friend,Exclaimed, 'Art thou the child of Jeanette Brend?''Oh!yes,' I answered quickly, with a flow of tears,And poured forth into the good parson's earsAll my tale of fear, past griefs, and woe,Concluding with the last unthought-of blow.'My mother is now and for ever free,All worldly care she will no longer see.''Martin,' the kind parson hastily replied,As he gazed on my wild and tearful eye,'Alas! thy mother sleeps peacefully for ever,All earthly ties and cares are now sever'd.''Oh! take me to the spot where now she lies,'Was all my sad and calm reply.He spoke to me in words so passing kind,Which for a moment relieved my agonizing mind.He then left me, at my wish, and there alone,Trembling I stood near my mother's last long home,And then kneeling by that low and stoneless grave, I almost wish that the fierce eddying wavesHad claimed me, in some mid-night storm;Aye! and better far, if I had ne'er been born.When the bright morning came, there still it foundThe poor lone sailor boy!—by the mossy mound.The lark sang merrily to the new-born day,My heart was sad—now bent on my homeward way!Fourteen long years having now rolled by,Yet how often in my sad mid-night dreamAgain and again rose that mournful scene.Tho' I have since sailed to many a land,And have trod on many a distant strand.Gascoigne, the sun-beam of my life is gone,And only the spectres now pale and wanOf that sorrowful past, to me for ever remain,And the sole hope that we may meet again.From all worldly grief and all care set free,To live in heaven, in peaceful unity!Now Gascoigne all my history you have heard,In my poor, plain, and homely word;—And if dear Gascoigne you have learnt my stay,'Twill guide thee through life's dangerous way!"

Bright and fair, arose the early dawnDispersing the grey dews of the lovely morn:—The calm, was broken by a freshening breeze As the proud frigate flew before the sea,With her topsails high pointing to the sky,Tinged by the rising sun, a deeper dye;Scattering from her bows the glittering spray,As the gallant ship speeds nobly on her way,—When suddenly a chirp was distinctly heardOf a lonely, wearied, yet lovely little bird.Gascoigne saw it perch upon the tall mast,Listening to the notes as they swiftly came past;Then pointing the bird to his friend,"Ah! yes," replied the half-musing Martin Brend,"I often think birds, like stars, have a voice,Bidding us poor mortals for our good rejoice.The grateful robin sings to his human friend,And should we not bless the great Creator then?Striving to love, and reverence, and adoreOur Heavenly Father still more and more."As Gascoigne now turned so calm and quietly away,And formed another group with Allan Grey.Now still at sea, the wide deep all around,Alone, with only a lulling drowsy soundOf the crested waves, that lave the lengthy sideOf the noble frigate, as in all her noble prideShe cleft the vale of the glistening sprayAs she grandly sped on her lonely way. Time flew on, and oft on the giddy mast,With the tropic breeze coming swiftly past,Gascoigne would pass the lonely hours by,Watching the changing clouds in the sky.When the bright day waned, and the setting sunShowing him that the day at last was done;It was then in tones so distinct and clearHis wild song burst on the listening ear.

GASCOIGNE'S SONG.

  Come loose the white and idle sail,   Cast away each snowy sheet,  Now bends our good ship to the gale,   As she flies o'er the boundless deep.

  Now, now, my lads, unfurl your sails,   Why should we longer rest?  Quick, let them fly from the binding brails,   To vie with the billows crest.

  Oh! come, brave boys, here's a glorious breeze   Whispering soft and gently past;  And now o'er the wide and trackless sea   Our own proud ship flies at last.

When a week had passed a distant land was seen,With a towering mountain, high and green,While at its foot lovely Rio lay,Calmly sleeping in its pleasant bay,And there the proud frigate calmly restsOn Rio's fair bay's peaceful breast.

SECOND PART.

TIME flies on, Magellan's straits are passed,The wide Pacific's gained by them at last;The cloudless sky above now vies in its hueWith that fairest ocean's beauteous blue.The flying fish and the golden albacoreO'er these bright waters dive and soar.The lone albatross, too, hovers o'er its breast,And on its crystal bosom tranquilly rests.Now through clouds of the eddying sprayThe noble frigate speeds her lonely way.One stormy night Gascoigne slowly paced the deck,His sad thoughts had long flown on unchecked.Suddenly a sheet of lightning rent the sky,While the echoing thunder in the distance slowly died.Not e'en a single bright or glittering starLooked down to meet the greeting spar. How fitfully moaned the now rising blastAmongst the stout cordage of the tall mast.The noble ship creaked and groanedA dreary answer to the tempest's moan.Gascoigne now stood on the quarter deckOf the gallant frigate, alas! a destined wreck.Calmly he watched the angry, raging tideThat foamed around the labouring frigate's side.Across his face there played a half formed smile,Which strangely mingled all the whileWith the fearless look of his young handsome face,And his proud, yet haughty, and careless grace.Suddenly, and high above the raging gale,A shriek arose, then a wild, despairing wail;A heavy blow, and then a dreadful shock,Alas! it was the frigate striking on a rock.Her bulwarks by the mountain waves were torn,Then far to leeward they were quickly borne.Was this the frigate which the previous daySwept proudly onward in her fair array?Her timbers quivered to her very heart,As from her keel they now were torn apart.Gascoigne, with arms folded o'er his youthful breast,Leant on the broken mainmast for a rest;Fixing on the deep his fine dark hazle eye, While on his blanched lips there slowly diedA single cry of wildest and deepest despair.Suddenly he felt his arm tightly claspedBy a youth, with firm and frenzied grasp."Save me, oh! save me," his messmate wildly cried,As he clung closer to the fearless Gascoigne's side."Save me, oh! save me for my fond mother's sake,And pity her sad, lonely, and childless state.""Wilfred, I fear 'tis but a bootless hope,That we with the raging waters now can cope;And I fear we all must now prepare to die!"—A sea swept o'er the doomed frigate's deck,That almost washed young Gascoigne from the wreck.Wilfred by that huge mountain was borne,Perishing amidst that fearful raging storm!—Once more his arm again was grasped;—This time 'twas Martin's friendly saving clasp."Quick, Gascoigne, the time, alas! is past.This shattered wreck, another hour, ne'er can last."Speedily a raft the thoughtful Martin formed,Of some planks which from the ship were torn."But where is Allan?" Gascoigne paused, and cried,Preparing to leap from the doomed ship's side.He called, but alas I—all was now in vain.— No Allan answered to that much-loved name!Scarcely had they left the wrecked ship's side,When on the bowsprit he was by them descried.Earnestly yet in vain his hand he waved,Imploring his friends his life to save!—Alas! it was too late; the frigate reeled,Then to her sad fate she was forced to yield,Sinking through the dark waters eddying crest,And lost for ever in their deep and lonely breast."Gascoigne," said Martin, as he spoke once more,"We are alone, and not on a friendly shore:—What is that which clings to yonder spar?And which to windward lies away so far?Nearer to us I see 'tis being quickly borne;Is it a shipmate who has outlived the storm?""If so Martin, to him I'll strive to swim,—I feel to leave him thus, would be a fearful sin.""We," said Gascoigne, "hope still we may be saved.How can we then leave another to a certain grave!"Out on his noble mission Gascoigne boldly went,Feeling he was by heaven spared and sent.How bravely he battled with the eddying wave,To save another from a lone ocean grave!!Soon by him the floating spar was gained,Or had his gallant efforts proved in vain. A cold and senseless youthful form he found,To the floating spar he was securely bound;Quickly the binding cords he soon divides,And back to Martin bears his precious prize.His over-wrought nature could endure no more,He sinks exhausted when the struggle's o'er!

When Gascoigne revived, the sun was shining highIn the clear blue, and now lovely, cloudless sky.All signs of a storm, now had all passed away,And now the wide ocean looked fair and gay:—And as if its now calm, and now tranquil breastHad never been awaken out of its rest!There by Gascoigne's side the rescued salior lay—Then, then remembered how his loved Allan GrayHad found a lonely, yet peaceful grave!Beneath those bright and dancing waves.He rose, and kneeling by the stranger's side,With gentle fingers the youth's hair divides.A moment he gazed on that pallid face;—And then quickly starting from his place,Crying wildly, dear Martin, oh! now I seeMy long lost youthful playmate, Duncan Leigh!At that instant, and with a deep drawn sigh,The youth unclosed his large grey eye:— "Where, oh! where am I?" he now slowly said,"Are all my loved shipmates mingled with the dead?""Oh! Duncan, and have you too forgotten me?Has Norman Gascoigne ne'er been thought of by thee?Have all the dreams of our happy by-gone dayAlready faded from thy thoughtless brain away?Oh! that the sad past I might again recall,I fear 'tis now too late!—I shudder at my fall.""Norman, can you forgive poor Duncan Leigh?A poor foolish youth, who ran away to sea.""Forgive thee, Duncan, oh! that I can, and will,And with an old friend's love, cherish thee still,For time and distance, they ne'er could partThy memory, dear Duncan, from my fond heart."He answered not, the gentle pressure of his handHis old playmate could very plainly understand.Slowly now once more his eyes he calmly closed,And gently sank again into a sweet repose!Alone! yes alone, the wild ocean all around,With only its wild, hollow, and requiem sound;The fierce sun is high in the cloudless sky,Alone! on the deep these sad wrecked ones lie!Hopeless, yet still hoping help might be near,Each trembling alike, 'twixt hope and fear!— And each shuddering at their now dire state;Being still so uncertain of their future fate.Alas! how changed is the noble Gascoigne now,Suffering having marked his once happy brow.His dark eyes now with a fierce lustre burn,As on the ocean his restless glance is turned,—There he kneels, by his loved playmate's side,And from his pale face the matted hair divides.Gascoigne now sinking down by Duncan Leigh,Was plunged by exhaustion in a deep lethargy."Rest on, dear Gascoigne, rest on, brave boy,And may thy now tranquil sleep be unalloy'd."Thus murmured the still watchful Martin Brend,As he leant o'er Gascoigne, his new found friend.Sleep on, brave boy, God is good, and quick to save,On mountain, lake, or the wild ocean's wave.But hark! what is the hollow sound I hear?—Can it be the breaking surf of an island near?Oh! yes, in the distance, but a few miles away,They descried a coral isle with its lovely bay!—All alone, and unseen, it seemed as asleep,On the wide, the grand, and the tranquil deep.Slowly towards its most beauteous shore so green,When the sun's last ray of golden sheenBathes the calm breast of the wide Lagoon, And the crescent edge of the soft silvery moon,O'er the lone ocean's waves began to peep.And then o'er that surf-beaten reef,The lonely castaways were safely swept,And on that calm and lovely island left.The days, weeks, and months, passed slowly by,Would a distant sail that they could descry!Shuddering, lest they should never moreSee once again their own dear native shore!—Anxiously watching the wild foaming waveFrom the low entrance of their little cave!Gascoigne, how the bread-fruit trees at thy feet,Of our God's loving kindness plainly speak:—Placed upon this far and distant strand,A gift so good, from the Almighty's hand!And does the kind Creator's mighty voiceEver bid man with heart and soul rejoice?Does not the meanest floweret speak,E'en though withered by the noon-tide heat?—Do not the seared leaves all silently sayAll that is earthly must soon fade away?—Gascoigne, I have sailed o'er the northern seas,Where no palm-tree bends to the balmy breeze,—There the stinted pine lies wither'd and dead,And the giant ice-bergs raise their snowy heads! When young, I listened to the old oak treesRustling their dark leaves in the gentle breeze,I think that this strange wild music of the windIs both calm and soothing to a troubled mind.To me 'tis like a voice that so softly speaks,Reminding all that we are poor, vain, and weak!That old age comes slowly, but still creeping on;—That the once rosy cheek becomes pale and wan;—Our proud forms must bend, with hand and face,Changed and haggard, wrinkled and effaced;Bleared and dim, the once fine piercing eye,—With tottering steps, and with long-drawn sigh!"—Thus spake the good and thoughtful Brend,While sitting one evening by his wearied friend.In the distance, once again they descryA white sail rising beneath the sky;In her crimson glories now is she dressed,The smiling west with her own azure breast,On the lone and the beauteous tranquil main,Reflecting its smiling glories back again.A signal is raised—round about she veers,And for the lone island the ship now steers.Hailed with hearty cheers, and saved once again,No more delusive hopes or fancied visions vainBut dear old England's white cliffs and shore The poor castaways may see with joy once more.When the time came for them to land,Like brothers they shook each other's hand.As Gascoigne from the noble Duncan did part,A painful pang flew through his fond heart.Later still, the kind and good old Martin BrendPrepared to leave his long and loved friend."Gascoigne, for years we have as shipmates roam'd,Shipwreck and danger we too oft have known;Remember in time of trouble there is One aboveI have from my childhood learnt to love.Place thy faith in Him who ever is at thy side,And ever bends His ear to hear the humblest cry."As Martin sadly and slowly turned away,Not a parting word could the grieved Gascoigne say.The once proud heart, now too full to speak,With rolling tears trickling down his manly cheek.Martin died, alas! not on his loved native land,But Africa's dry and sun-scorched strand.To the frozen north Gascoigne sailed once more,And there he perished on its cold and icy shore.Months elapsed, when a floating mast was foundIn a lonely and distant foreign sound,With the frigates name in a half burnt state,Alas! too truly denoting the ship's hapless fate. Years have now rolled on and passed awaySince that mournfully sad and unhappy day.'Midst fire and water, and the wild ocean's wave,"The Last of the Gascoignes" found an untimely grave.