The Storm; A Fragment; Poem by Charles Tompson

In Imitation of Cowper

Dark lowered the sky, the rumbling thunder roll'd,
And light'ning's vivid flash, athwart the gloom,
Appalling, seemed to burst the valt of heaven;
From the rent clouds down swept a deluge loud,
Of rain, harsh, patt'ring o'er the turbid brine;
The angry billows dashed their rocky bourne,
Delib'rate yet; 'till, from the brooding south,
A sweeping gale convulsed their wide domain,
That, now transformed to one continuous sheet
Of foam, in liquid mountains sought the shore.

'Twas then, exposed to all the ruthless war
Of the contending elements, a bark,
Tight-fraught with merchandize, and homeward-bound,
Drew my attention to her piteous plight.
(Poor hapless mariners! how can ye brook
The fierce unbridled fury of the storm?)

Still ruthless raged the ordnance of heaven
The frail devoted bark its only sport,
Sole buffet of its rage, she long withstood,
And her tough bulwarks had well nigh outborne,
When (destiny unmarked!) th' ill-fated keel
Struck on a rock, whose top the billows washed;
O'er her broad stern the waves tremendous broke;
Th' electric fluid thro' her rigging played—
Her masts—her cordage—devastating all,
'Till the ribb'd hulk no longer marr'd its force,
But tott'ring sunk into the yawning gulph,
A sad example of the wrath of heaven!

The dismal cry of seamen in despair,
Clinging, for succour, to a floating yard,
The dying groan—the sinner's last brief prayer,
But faintly wafted on the passing gale,
Would draw some pity from the hardest heart,
But e'en the few who fondly sought to live,
'Neath 'whelming billows found a timeless grave.

O, what a scene to wound the feeling breast,
To chill the crimson current in its course!

The blasts, less rude, still howled among the cliffs,

Some random bolts played harmless o'er the deep,
The thunder's hollow voice, but murm'ring faint
At awful intervals, and almost quelled,
Seemed like the threat'ning plaint of discontent,
Causeless and muttered from an ingrate's tongue.
I paused;—by slow degrees the scene was changed;
The sea grew calm—the boist'rous gale expired,
And all the roaring tempests sunk to sleep;
Nor one faint human accent met the ear,
Nor floating fragment of the wreck remained:
A tear—the tribute due to kindred dust,
(Sweet child of Sympathy, and Pity's pledge!)
I dropp'd—then, melancholy musing, fled.