The topsail yard point to the wind, boys,
See all clear to reef each course;
Let the fore sheet go, don't mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft the sprit-sail yard get,
Reef the mizzen, see all clear;
Hands up! each preventive brace set!
Man the fore yard, cheer, lads, cheer!
Now the dreadful thunder 's roaring
Peal on peal contending clash,
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
In our eyes blue lightnings flash.
The sun in heaven shone so gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds screamed as they sported round,
And there was pleasure in their sound.
The float of the Inchcape bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph, the rover, walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring, ·
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess;
But the rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the bell and float:
Quoth he, "My men, pull out the boat;
And row me to the Inchcape rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And cut the warning bell from the float.
Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose, and burst around.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the rock
Will not bless the priest of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph, the rover, sailed away,
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
His steers his course to Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They could not see the sun on high;
The wind had blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the rover takes his stand;
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For yonder, methinks, should be the shore. Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell."
They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along ;
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, -
Alas! it is the Inchcape rock!
Sir Ralph, the rover, tore his hair;
He beat himself in wild despair.
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky!
"Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere !
He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire; Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck ;
The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire.
Like mountains the billows tremendously swell; In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave!
O sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight!
In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss.
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,
Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried. Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,
Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone;
His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair; while yet another stroke,
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak;
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn her frame divides,
And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides.
O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art
To wake to sympathy the feeling heart;
Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress
In all the pomp of exquisite distress,
Then too severely taught by cruel fate,
To share in all the perils I relate,
Then might I, with unrivalled strains deplore
The impervious horrors of a leeward shore !
As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast hung,
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung;
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast,
And there by oozy tangles grappled fast.
Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' rage,
Unequal combat with their fate to wage;
Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below.
Some, from the main-yard-arm impetuous thrown
On marble ridges, die without a groan.
Three with Palemon on their skill depend,
And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend.
Now on the mountain wave on high they ride,
Then downward plunge beneath the involving
Till one, who seems in agony to strive,
The whirling breakers heave on shore alive;
The rest a speedier end of anguish knew,
And prest the stony beach, a lifeless crew!
IN vain the cords and axes were prepared,
For now the audacious seas insult the yard ;
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade,
And o'er her burst in terrible cascade.
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies,
Her shattered top half-buried in the skies,
Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground;
Earth groans air trembles! and the deeps re-
sound!
Her giant-bulk the dread concussion feels,
And quivering with the wound in torment reels.
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes,
The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows.
Again she plunges hark! a second shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock :
YE mariners of England,
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave;
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave..
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