The Blue Poetry Book

BALLAD OF AGINCOURT

Fair stood the wind for France,When we our sails advance,Nor now to prove our chanceLonger will tarry;But putting to the main,At Caux, the mouth of Seine,With all his martial train,Landed King Harry.And, taking many a fort,Furnished in warlike sort,Marcheth tow’rds AgincourtIn happy hour,(Skirmishing day by day,With those oppose his way)Where the French general layWith all his power.Which in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideTo the king sending;Which he neglects the while,As from a nation vile,Yet with an angry smileTheir fall portending,And, turning to his men,Quoth our brave Henry then:Though they to one be ten,Be not amazèd!Yet have we well begun;Battles so bravely won,Have ever to the sunBy fame been raisèd.And for myself (quoth he), —This my full rest shall be,England ne’er mourn for me,Nor more esteem me; —Victor I will remain,Or on this earth lie slain:Never shall she sustainLoss to redeem me.Poitiers and Cressy tell,When most their pride did swell,Under our swords they fell;No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopp’d the French lilies.The Duke of York so dreadThe eager vanward led,With the main Henry sped,Amongst his henchmen.Exceter had the rear,A braver man not there, —O Lord! how hot they were,On the false Frenchmen!They now to fight are gone:Armour on armour shone,Drum now to drum did groan —To hear was wonder;That with the cries they make,The very earth did shake;Trumpet to trumpet spake —Thunder to thunder.Well it thine age became,O noble Erpingham!Which didst the signal aimTo our hid forces, —When from a meadow by,Like a storm suddenly,The English archeryStuck the French horses.With Spanish yew so strong,Arrows a cloth-yard long,That like to serpents stung,Piercing the weather, —None from his fellow starts,But, playing manly parts,And like true English heartsStuck close together.When down their bows they threw,And forth their bilboes drew,And on the French they flew,Not one was tardy;Arms from the shoulders sent,Scalps to the teeth were rent,Down the French peasants went, —Our men were hardy.This while our noble king,His broadsword brandishing,Into the host did fling,As to o’erwhelm it,And many a deep wound lent,His arms with blood besprent,And many a cruel dentBruizèd his helmet.Gloster, that duke so good,Next of the royal blood,For famous England stood,With his brave brother;Clarence, in steel so bright,Though but a maiden knightYet in that furious fightScarce such another.Warwick in blood did wade;Oxford the foe invade,And cruel slaughter madeStill as they ran up;Suffolk his axe did ply;Beaumont and WilloughbyBare them right doughtily,Ferrars and Fanhope.Upon Saint Crispin’s dayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delayTo England to carry.O when shall Englishmen,With such acts fill a pen,Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?M. Drayton.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

A NAVAL ODEIYe Mariners of England!That guard our native seas;Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,The battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch againTo meet another foe!And sweep through the deep,While the stormy tempests blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy tempests blow.IIThe spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave! —For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,Your manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy tempests blowWhile the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy tempests blow.IIIBritannia needs no bulwark,No towers along the steep;Her march is o’er the mountain-waves,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oakShe quells the floods below, —As they roar on the shore,When the stormy tempests blow;When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy tempests blow.IVThe meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger’s troubled night depart,And the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!Our song and feast shall flowTo the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow;When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.T. Campbell.

THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN

With sweetest milk and sugar firstI it at my own fingers nursed;And as it grew, so every dayIt wax’d more white and sweet than they.It had so sweet a breath! and oftI blush’d to see its foot more softAnd white, shall I say, than my hand?Nay, any lady’s of the land!It is a wond’rous thing how fleet’Twas on those little silver feet:With what a pretty skipping graceIt oft would challenge me the race;And when ’t had left me far away’Twould stay, and run again, and stay,For it was nimbler much than hinds;And trod as if on the four winds.I have a garden of my own,But so with roses overgrown,And lilies, that you would it guessTo be a little wilderness,And all the spring-time of the yearIt only loved to be there.Among the beds of lilies IHave sought it oft, where it should lie;Yet could not, till itself would rise,Find it, although before mine eyes.For, in the flaxen lilies’ shadeIt like a bank of lilies laid.Upon the roses it would feed,Until its lips e’en seem’d to bleed;And then to me ’twould boldly trip,And print those roses on my lip.But all its chief delight was stillOn roses thus itself to fill;And its pure virgin limbs to foldIn whitest sheets of lilies cold.Had it lived long, it would have beenLilies without, roses within.A. Marvell.

THE SOLDIER’S DREAM

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower’d,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower’d,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.When reposing that night on my pallet of strawBy the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful arrayFar, far, I had roam’d on a desolate track:’Twas Autumn, – and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life’s morning march, when my bosom was young;I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I sworeFrom my home and my weeping friends never to part;My little ones kiss’d me a thousand times o’er,And my wife sobb’d aloud in her fulness of heart.‘Stay – stay with us! – rest! – thou art weary and worn!’ —And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; —But sorrow return’d with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.T. Campbell.

JOHN GILPIN

John Gilpin was a citizenOf credit and renown,A train-band Captain eke was heOf famous London town.John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,Though wedded we have beenThese twice ten tedious years, yet weNo holiday have seen.To-morrow is our wedding-day,And we will then repairUnto the Bell at Edmonton,All in a chaise and pair.My sister and my sister’s child,Myself, and children three,Will fill the chaise; so you must rideOn horseback after we.He soon replied, – I do admireOf womankind but one,And you are she, my dearest dear,Therefore it shall be done.I am a linendraper bold,As all the world doth know,And my good friend, the Callender,Will lend his horse to go.Quoth Mistress Gilpin, – That’s well said;And for that wine is dear,We will be furnish’d with our own,Which is both bright and clear.John Gilpin kiss’d his loving wife;O’erjoy’d was he to findThat though on pleasure she was bent,She had a frugal mind.The morning came, the chaise was brought,But yet was not allow’dTo drive up to the door, lest allShould say that she was proud.So three doors off the chaise was stay’d,Where they did all get in,Six precious souls, and all agogTo dash through thick and thin.Smack went the whip, round went the wheels;Were never folks so glad,The stones did rattle underneath,As if Cheapside were mad.John Gilpin at his horse’s side,Seized fast the flowing mane,And up he got in haste to ride,But soon came down again.For saddle-tree scarce reach’d had he,His journey to begin,When turning round his head he sawThree customers come in.So down he came, for loss of timeAlthough it grieved him sore,Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,Would trouble him much more.’Twas long before the customersWere suited to their mind,When Betty screaming came downstairs,The wine is left behind.Good lack! quoth he, yet bring it me,My leathern belt likewiseIn which I bear my trusty swordWhen I do exercise.Now Mistress Gilpin, careful soul,Had two stone bottles found,To hold the liquor that she loved,And keep it safe and sound.Each bottle had a curling ear,Through which the belt he drew,And hung a bottle on each sideTo make his balance true.Then over all, that he might beEquipp’d from top to toe,His long red cloak well-brush’d and neat,He manfully did throw.Now see him mounted once againUpon his nimble steed,Full slowly pacing o’er the stones,With caution and good heed.But finding soon a smoother roadBeneath his well-shod feet,The snorting beast began to trot,Which gall’d him in his seat.So, Fair and softly! John he cried,But John he cried in vain;That trot became a gallop soon,In spite of curb and rein.So stooping down, as needs he mustWho cannot sit upright,He grasp’d the mane with both his handsAnd eke with all his might.His horse, who never in that sortHad handled been before,What thing upon his back had gotDid wonder more and more.Away went Gilpin neck or nought,Away went hat and wig;He little dreamt, when he set out,Of running such a rig.The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,Like streamer long and gay,Till, loop and button failing both,At last it flew away.Then might all people well discernThe bottles he had slung;A bottle swinging at each sideAs hath been said or sung.The dogs did bark, the children scream’d,Up flew the windows all,And every soul cried out, Well done!As loud as he could bawl.Away went Gilpin – who but he?His fame soon spread around,He carries weight, he rides a race,’Tis for a thousand pound.And still as fast as he drew near,’Twas wonderful to viewHow in a trice the turnpike-menTheir gates wide open threw.And now as he went bowing downHis reeking head full low,The bottles twain behind his backWere shatter’d at a blow.Down ran the wine into the roadMost piteous to be seen,Which made his horse’s flanks to smokeAs they had basted been.But still he seem’d to carry weight,With leathern girdle braced,For all might see the bottle-necksStill dangling at his waist.Thus all through merry IslingtonThese gambols he did play,And till he came unto the WashOf Edmonton so gay.And there he threw the Wash aboutOn both sides of the way,Just like unto a trundling mop,Or a wild-goose at play.At Edmonton his loving wifeFrom the balcòny spiedHer tender husband, wondering muchTo see how he did ride.Stop, stop, John Gilpin! – Here’s the house —They all at once did cry,The dinner waits, and we are tired;Said Gilpin – So am I!But yet his horse was not a whitInclined to tarry there,For why? his owner had a houseFull ten miles off, at Ware.So like an arrow swift he flewShot by an archer strong,So did he fly – which brings me toThe middle of my song.Away went Gilpin, out of breath,And sore against his will,Till at his friend the Callender’sHis horse at last stood still.The Callender, amazed to seeHis neighbour in such trim,Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,And thus accosted him —What news? what news? your tidings tell,Tell me you must and shall —Say, why bareheaded you are come,Or why you come at all?Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,And loved a timely joke,And thus unto the CallenderIn merry guise he spoke —I came because your horse would come;And if I well forbode,My hat and wig will soon be here,They are upon the road.The Callender, right glad to findHis friend in merry pin,Return’d him not a single word,But to the house went in.Whence straight he came with hat and wig,A wig that flow’d behind,A hat not much the worse for wear,Each comely in its kind.He held them up, and in his turnThus show’d his ready wit,My head is twice as big as yours,They therefore needs must fit.But let me scrape the dirt away,That hangs upon your face;And stop and eat, for well you mayBe in a hungry case.Said John – It is my wedding-day,And all the world would stare,If wife should dine at EdmontonAnd I should dine at Ware.So, turning to his horse, he said,I am in haste to dine,’Twas for your pleasure you came here,You shall go back for mine.Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!For which he paid full dear,For while he spake a braying assDid sing most loud and clear.Whereat his horse did snort as heHad heard a lion roar,And gallop’d off with all his might,As he had done before.Away went Gilpin, and awayWent Gilpin’s hat and wig;He lost them sooner than at first,For why? they were too big.Now Mistress Gilpin, when she sawHer husband posting downInto the country far away,She pull’d out half-a-crown;And thus unto the youth she said,That drove them to the Bell,This shall be yours, when you bring backMy husband safe and well.The youth did ride, and soon did meetJohn coming back amain,Whom in a trice he tried to stopBy catching at his rein.But not performing what he meant,And gladly would have done,The frighten’d steed he frighten’d moreAnd made him faster run.Away went Gilpin, and awayWent postboy at his heels,The postboy’s horse right glad to missThe lumbering of the wheels.Six gentlemen upon the roadThus seeing Gilpin fly,With postboy scampering in the rear,They raised the hue and cry.Stop thief! – stop thief! – a highwayman!Not one of them was mute,And all and each that pass’d that wayDid join in the pursuit.And now the turnpike gates againFlew open in short space,The toll-men thinking as beforeThat Gilpin rode a race.And so he did and won it too,For he got first to town,Nor stopp’d till where he had got upHe did again get down.– Now let us sing, Long live the king,And Gilpin long live he,And when he next doth ride abroad,May I be there to see!W. Cowper.

HOHENLINDEN

On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of nightCommanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast array’dEach horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neigh’dTo join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riven;Then rush’d the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of Heaven,Far flash’d the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stainèd snow;And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye braveWho rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few, shall part, where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier’s sepulchre.T. Campbell.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

Under a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate’er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing-floor.He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter’s voice,Singing in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.Toiling, – rejoicing, – sorrowing,Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night’s repose.Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought!H. W. Longfellow.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

Good people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song;And if you find it wondrous short,It cannot hold you long.In Islington there was a Man,Of whom the world might say,That still a godly race he ran,Whene’er he went to pray.A kind and gentle heart he had,To comfort friends and foes,The naked every day he clad,When he put on his clothes.And in that town a Dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,And curs of low degree.This Dog and Man at first were friends;But when a pique began,The Dog, to gain some private ends,Went mad and bit the Man.Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wond’ring neighbours ran,And swore the Dog had lost his wits,To bite so good a Man.The wound it seem’d both sore and sadTo every Christian eye;And while they swore the Dog was mad,They swore the Man would die.But soon a wonder came to light,That show’d the rogues they lied:The Man recover’d of the bite,The Dog it was that died.O. Goldsmith.

THE OUTLAW

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer queen.And as I rode by Dalton HallBeneath the turrets high,A Maiden on the castle wallWas singing merrily, —‘O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green;I’d rather rove with Edmund there,Than reign our English queen.’– ‘If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,To leave both tower and town,Thou first must guess what life lead we,That dwell by dale and down?And if thou canst that riddle read,As read full well you may,Then to the greenwood shalt thou speedAs blithe as Queen of May.’Yet sung she, ‘Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are green;I’d rather rove with Edmund thereThan reign our English queen.’‘I read you by your bugle hornAnd by your palfrey good,I read you for a Ranger sworn,To keep the king’s greenwood.’– ‘A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,And ’tis at peep of light;His blast is heard at merry morn,And mine at dead of night.’Yet sung she, ‘Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are gay;I would I were with Edmund there,To reign his Queen of May!‘With burnish’d brand and musketoon,So gallantly you come,I read you for a bold DragoonThat lists the tuck of drum.’– ‘I list no more the tuck of drum,No more the trumpet hear;But when the beetle sounds his hum,My comrades take the spear.And O! though Brignall banks be fairAnd Greta woods be gay,Yet mickle must the maiden dare,Would reign my Queen of May!‘Maiden! a nameless life I lead,A nameless death I’ll die!The fiend, whose lantern lights the meadWere better mate than I!And when I’m with my comrades metBeneath the greenwood bough,What once we were we all forget,Nor think what we are now.’CHORUSYet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green.And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer queen.Sir W. Scott.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

Of Nelson and the North,Sing the glorious day’s renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark’s crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;By each gun the lighted brand,In a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on. —Like leviathans afloat,Lay their bulwarks on the brine;While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime:As they drifted on their path,There was silence deep as death;And the boldest held his breathFor a time. —But the might of England flush’dTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rush’dO’er the deadly space between.‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried, when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back; —Their shots along the deep slowly boom; —Then ceased – and all is wail,As they strike the shatter’d sail;Or, in conflagration pale,Light the gloom.Out spoke the victor thenAs he hail’d them o’er the wave;‘Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save: —So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe, thy fleetWith the crews, at England’s feet,And make submission meetTo our King.’Then Denmark bless’d our chiefThat he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day.While the sun look’d smiling brightO’er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.Now joy, old England, raise!For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities’ blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleep,Full many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!Brave hearts! to Britain’s prideOnce so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that died;With the gallant good Riou;Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave!While the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid’s song condoles,Singing Glory to the soulsOf the brave!T. Campbell.

YOUNG LOCHINVAR

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West!Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none;He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.He stay’d not for brake and he stopp’d not for stone;He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late;For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all; —Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),’O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?‘I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied; —Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; —And now am I come with this lost Love of mineTo lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!’The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up,He quaff’d off the wine and he threw down the cup.She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, —‘Now tread we a measure!’ said young Lochinvar.So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bride-maidens whispered, ’‘Twere better by far,To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!’One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reach’d the hall door; and the charger stood near;So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan,Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ranThere was racing and chasing, on Cannobie lea,But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?Sir W. Scott.

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company.Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.Then up and spake an old sailòr,Had sail’d the Spanish Main,’I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.‘Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!’The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the North-east;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shudder’d and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leap’d her cable’s length.‘Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr.And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow.’He wrapp’d her warm in his seaman’s coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast.‘O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say, what may it be?’‘’Tis a fog-bell, on a rock-bound coast!’ —And he steer’d for the open sea.‘O father! I hear the sound of guns,O say, what may it be?’‘Some ship in distress that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!’‘O father! I see a gleaming light,O say, what may it be?’But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wavesOn the Lake of Galilee.And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman’s Woe.And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surf,On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLook’d soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sidesLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,Ho! ho! the breakers roared!At day-break, on the bleak sea-beachA fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fairLashed close to a drifting mast.The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair like the brown sea-weedOn the billows fall and rise.Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman’s Woe!H. W. Longfellow.