Written while sailing in an open boat on the Hudson River, between Stony Point and the Highlands, on seeing the wreck of an old sloop, June, 1821.

Her side is in the water,
Her keel is in the sand,
And her bowsprit rests on the low gray rock
That bounds the sea and land.
Her deck is without a mast,
And sand and shells are there,
And the teeth of decay are gnawing her planks,
In the sun and the sultry air.
No more on the river's bosom,
When sky and wave are calm,
And the clouds are in summer quietness,
And the cool night-breath is balm,
Will she glide in the swan-like stillness
Of the moon in the blue above,
A messenger from other lands,
A beacon to hope and love.
No more, in the midnight tempest,
Will she mock the mounting sea,
Strong in her oaken timbers,
And her white sail's bravery.
She hath borne, in days departed,
Warm hearts upon her deck;
Those hearts, like her, are mouldering now,
The victims, and the wreck
Of time, whose touch erases
Each vestige of all we love;
The wanderers, home returning,
Who gazed that deck above,
And they who stood to welcome
Their loved ones on that shore,
Are gone, and the place that knew them
Shall know them never more.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a night of terror,
In the autumn equinox,
When that gallant vessel found a grave
Upon the Peekskill rocks.
Captain, mate, cook, and seamen
(They were in all but three),
Were saved by swimming fast and well,
And their gallows-destiny.
But two, a youth and maiden,
Were left to brave the storm,
With unpronounceable Dutch names,
And hearts with true love warm.
And they, for love has watchers
In air, on earth, and sea,
Were saved by clinging to the wreck,
And their marriage-destiny.
From sunset to night's noon
She had lean'd upon his arm,
Nor heard the far-off thunder toll
The tocsin of alarm.
Not so the youth—he listen'd
To the cloud-wing flapping by;
And low he whisper'd in Low Dutch,
"It tells our doom is nigh.
"Death is the lot of mortals,
But we are young and strong,
And hoped, not boldly, for a life
Of happy years and long.
"Yet 'tis a thought consoling,
That, till our latest breath,
We loved in life, and shall not be
Divided in our death.
"Alas, for those that wait us
On their couch of dreams at home,
The morn will hear the funeral cry
Around their daughter's tomb.
"They hoped" ('twas a strange moment
In Dutch to quote Shakspeare)
"Thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid,
And not have strew'd thy bier."
But, sweetly-voiced and smiling,
The trusting maiden said,
"Breathed not thy lips the vow to-day,
To-morrow we will wed?
"And I, who have known thy truth
Through years of joy and sorrow,
Can I believe the fickle winds?
No! we shall wed to-morrow!"
The tempest heard and paused—
The wild sea gentler moved—
They felt the power of woman's faith
In the word of him she loved.
All night to rope and spar
They clung with strength untired,
Till the dark clouds fled before the sun,
And the fierce storm expired.
At noon the song of bridal bells
O'er hill and valley ran;
At eve he call'd the maiden his,
"Before the holy man."
They dwelt beside the waters
That bathe yon fallen pine,
And round them grew their sons and daughters,
Like wild grapes on the vine.
And years and years flew o'er them,
Like birds with beauty on their wings,
And theirs were happy sleigh-ride winters,
And long and lovely springs,
Such joys as thrill'd the lips that kiss'd
The wave, rock-cool'd, from Horeb's fountains,
And sorrows, fleeting as the mist
Of morning, spread upon the mountains,
Till, in a good old age,
Their life-breath pass'd away;
Their name is on the churchyard page—
Their story in my lay.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

And let them rest together,
The maid, the boat, the boy,
Why sing of matrimony now,
In this brief hour of joy?
Our time may come, and let it—
'Tis enough for us now to know
That our bark will reach West Point ere long,
If the breeze keep on to blow.
We have Hudibras and Milton,
Wines, flutes, and a bugle-horn,
And a dozen segars are lingering yet
Of the thousand of yestermorn.
They have gone, like life's first pleasures,
And faded in smoke away,
And the few that are left are like bosom friends
In the evening of our day.

We are far from the mount of battle,[B]
Where the wreck first met mine eye,
And now where twin-forts[C] in the olden time rose,
Thro' the Race, like a swift steed, our little bark goes,
And our bugle's notes echo through Anthony's Nose,
So wrecks and rhymes—good-by.