Poems (Thaxter)/The Wreck of the Pocahontas

by Celia Thaxter

THE WRECK OF THE POCAHONTAS.

I lit the lamps in the light-house tower, For the sun dropped down and the day was dead;They shone like a glorious clustered flower,— Ten golden and five red.

Looking across, where the line of coast Stretched darkly, shrinking away from the sea,The lights sprang out at its edge,—almost They seemed to answer me!

O warning lights! burn bright and clear, Hither the storm comes! Leagues awayIt moans and thunders low and drear,— Burn till the break of day!

Good-night! I called to the gulls that sailed Slow past me through the evening sky;And my comrades, answering shrilly, hailed Me back with boding cry.

A mournful breeze began to blow, Weird music it drew through the iron bars,The sullen billows boiled below, And dimly peered the stars;

The sails that flecked the ocean floor From east to west leaned low and fled;They knew what came in the distant roar That filled the air with dread!

Flung by a fitful gust, there beat Against the window a dash of rain:—Steady as tramp of marching feet Strode on the hurricane.

It smote the waves for a moment still, Level and deadly white for fear;The bare rock shuddered,—an awful thrill Shook even my tower of cheer.

Like all the demons loosed at last, Whistling and shrieking, wild and wide,The mad wind raged, while strong and fast Rolled in the rising tide.

And soon in ponderous showers, the spray, Struck from the granite, reared and sprungAnd clutched at tower and cottage gray, Where overwhelmed they clung

Half drowning to the naked rock; But still burned on the faithful light,Nor faltered at the tempest's shock, Through all the fearful night.

Was it in vain? That knew not we. We seemed, in that confusion vastOf rushing wind and roaring sea, One point whereon was cast

The whole Atlantic's weight of brine. Heaven help the ship should drift our way!No matter how the light might shine Far on into the day.

When morning dawned, above the din Of gale and breaker boomed a gun!Another! We who sat within Answered with cries each one.

Into each other's eyes with fear, We looked through helpless tears, as still,One after one, near and more near, The signals pealed, until

The thick storm seemed to break apart To show us, staggering to her grave,The fated brig. We had no heart To look, for naught could save.

One glimpse. of black hull heaving slow, Then closed the mists o'er canvas tornAnd tangled ropes swept to and fro From masts that raked forlorn.

Weeks after, yet ringed round with spray, Our island lay, and none might land;Though blue the waters of the bay Stretched calm on either hand.

And when at last from the distant shore A little boat stole out, to reachOur loneliness, and bring once more Fresh human thought and speech,

We told our tale, and the boatmen cried: "'Twas the Pocahontas,—all were lost!For miles along the coast the tide Her shattered timbers tossed."

Then I looked the whole horizon round,— So beautiful the ocean spreadAbout us, o'er those sailors drowned! "Father in heaven," I said,—

A child's grief struggling in my breast,— "Do purposeless thy children meetSuch bitter death? How was it best These hearts should cease to beat?

O wherefore! Are we naught to Thee? Like senseless weeds that rise and fallUpon thine awful sea, are we No more then, after all?"

And I shut the beauty from my sight, For I thought of the dead that lay below;From the bright air faded the warmth and light, There came a chill like snow.

Then I heard the far-off rote resound, Where the breakers slow and slumberous rolled,And a subtile sense of Thought profound Touched me with power untold.

And like a voice eternal spake That wondrous rhythm, and, "Peace, be still!"It murmured, "bow thy head and take Life's rapture and life's ill,

And wait. At last all shall be clear." The long, low, mellow music roseAnd fell, and soothed my dreaming ear With infinite repose.

Sighing I climbed the light-house stair, Half forgetting my grief and pain;And while the day died, sweet and fair, I lit the lamps again.