  A ABANDONED wrecks they plunge and drift, The sport of sea and wind, The tempest drives, the billows lift, The aimless sails they flap and shift With impulse vague and blind, As tossing on from wave to wave They seek—and shun—the yawning grave. The decks once trodden by busy feet Man 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 buy Or 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 brine She 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. |
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