Derelict

ABANDONED wrecks they plunge and drift,The sport of sea and wind,The tempest drives, the billows lift,The aimless sails they flap and shiftWith impulse vague and blind,As tossing on from wave to waveThey seek—and shun—the yawning grave.

The decks once trodden by busy feetMan nevermore shall tread;The cargoes brave of wine or wheat,Now soaked with salt and drenched with sleet,And mixed and scatterèd,No merchant shall appraise or buyOr store in vat or granary.

The wet ropes pull the creaking sails,As though by hands drawn tight.Echoes the hold with ghostly wails,While daylight wanes, and twilight pales,And drops the heavy night,And vast and silent fish swim by,And scan the wreck with cruel eye.

Ha! lights ahead! A ship is near!The dumb wreck makes no sign;No lantern shows, returns no cheer,But straight and full, without a veer,Sped by the urging brineShe goes—a crash! her errand done,The deadly, lonely thing drives on.

Oh, hopeless lives, distorted, crushed,Which, like the lonely wreck,Lashed by the waves and tempest-tossed,With rudder gone and cargo lost,Torn ribs and leaking deck,Plunge on through sunshine and eclipse,A menace to the happier ships.

All oceans know them, and all lands.Speechless they drift us by;To questioning voices, friendly hands,Warnings or counsels or commands,Still making no reply.God send them help if help may be,Or sink them harmless in his sea.

WHAT was she most like? Was she like the wind,Fresh always, and untired; intent to findNew fields to penetrate, new heights to gain;Scattering all mists with sudden, radiant wing;Stirring the languid pulses; quickeningThe apathetic mood, the weary brain?

Or was she like the sun, whose gift of cheerEndureth for all seasons of the year,Alike in winter’s cold or summer’s heat?Or like the sea, which brings its gifts from far,And still, wherever want and straitness are,Lays down a sudden largess at their feet?

Or was she like a wood, where light and shade,And sound and silence, mingle unafraid;Where mosses cluster, and, in coverts dark,Shy blossoms court the brief and wandering air,Mysteriously sweet; and here and thereA firefly flashes like a sudden spark?

Or like a wilful brook, which laughs and leapsAll unexpectedly, and never keepsThe course predicted, as it seaward flows?Or like a stream-fed river, brimming high?Or like a fruit, where those who love descryA pungent charm no other flavor knows?

I cannot find her type. In her were blentEach varied and each fortunate elementWhich souls combine, with something all her own,Sadness and mirthfulness, a chorded strain,The tender heart, the keen and searching brain,The social zest, the power to live alone.

Comrade of comrades, giving man the slipTo seek in Nature truest comradeship;Tenacity and impulse ruled her fate,This grasping firmly what that flashed to feel,—The velvet scabbard and the sword of steel,The gift to strongly love, to frankly hate!

Patience as strong as was her hopefulness;A joy in living which grew never lessAs years went on and age drew gravely nigh;Vision which pierced the veiling mists of pain,And saw beyond the mortal shadows plainThe eternal day-dawn broadening in the sky.

The love of Doing, and the scorn of Done;The playful fancy, which, like glinting sun,No chill could daunt, no loneliness could smother.Upon her ardent pulse Death’s chillness lies;Closed the brave lips, the merry, questioning eyes.She was herself!—there is not such another.