Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE STORM, by CHARLES COTTON


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THE STORM, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: How with ill nature does this world abound!
Last Line: I'll thence ride post to kiss your lordship's hand.
Subject(s): Ships & Shipping; Storms


How with ill nature does this world abound!
When I, who ever thought myself most sound,
And free from that infection, now must choose
Out you (my Lord) whom least I should abuse
To trouble with a tempest, who have none
In your firm breast t'afflict you of your own;
But since of friendship it the nature is,
In any accident that falls amiss,
Whether of sorrow, terror, loss, or pain,
Caus'd or by men or fortune, to complain
To those who of our ills have deepest sense,
And in whose favour we've most confidence,
Pardon, if in a storm I here engage
Your calmer thoughts, and on a Sea, whose rage
When but a little mov'd, as far outbraves
The tamer mutinies of Adria's Waves,
As they, when worst for Neptune to appease
The softest curls of most pacific seas;
And though I'm vain enough half to believe
My danger will some little trouble give,
I yet more vainly fancy 'twill advance
Your pleasure too, for my deliverance.

'Twas now the time of year, of all the rest,
For slow, but certain navigation best;
The earth had dressed herself so fine and gay,
That all the world, our little world, was May;
The sea too, had put on his smoothest face,
Clear, slick, and even as a looking glass;
The rugged winds were lock'd up in their gaols,
And were but Zephyrs whisper'd in the sails;
All Nature seem'd to court us to our woe;
Good God! can Elements dissemble too?
Whilst we, secure, consider'd not the whiles
That greatest treasons lie conceal'd in smiles.

Aboard we went, and soon were under sail,
But with so small an over-modest gale,
And to our virgin canvas so unkind,
As not to swell their laps with so much wind,
As common courtship would in breeding pay
To maids less buxom and less trim than they.
But of this calm we could not long complain,
For scarcely were we got out to the main
From the still harbour but a league, no more,
When the false wind (that seem'd so chaste before)
The Ship's lac'd smock began to stretch and tear,
Not like a suitor, but a ravisher;
As if delight were lessen'd by consent,
And tasted worse for being innocent.
A sable curtain, in a little space,
Of thick wove clouds was drawn o'er Phoebus' face,
He might not see the horror of the fight,
Nor we the comfort of his heav'nly light:
Then, as this darkness had the signal been,
At which the furious storm was to begin,
Heaven's loud artillery began to play,
And with pale flashes made a dreadful day:
The centre shook by these, the ocean
In hills of brine to swell and heave began;
Which growing mountains, as they rolling hit,
To surge and foam, each other broke and split,
Like men, who, in intestine storms of state,
Strike any they nor know, nor yet for what;
But with the stream of fury headlong run
To war, they know not how nor why begun.

In this disorder straight the winds forlorn,
Which had lain ambushed all the flatt'ring morn,
With unexpected fury rushes in,
The ruffling skirmish rudely to begin;
The sea with thunder-claps alarm'd before,
Assaulted thus anew, began to roar,
In waves, that striving which should fastest run,
Crowded themselves into confusion.

At which advantage AEolus brought on
His large spread wings, and main battalion,
When by opposing shores the flying foe
Forc'd back against the enemy to flow,
So great a conflict follow'd, as if here
Th' enraged enemies embattled were;
Not only one another to subdue,
But to destroy themselves and Nature too.

To paint this horror to the life, weak Art
Must want a hand, humanity a heart,
And I, the bare relation whilst I make,
Methinks am brave, my hand still does not shake;
For surely since men first in planks of wood
Themselves committed to the faithless flood,
Men born and bred at sea, did ne'er behold
Neptune in such prodigious furrows roll'd;
Those winds which with the loudest terror roar,
Never so stretched their lungs and cheeks before;
Nor on this floating stage has ever been
So black a scene of dreadful ruin seen.

Poor Yacht! in such a sea how canst thou live?
What ransom would not thy pale tenants give
To be set down on the most desp'rate shore,
Where serpents hiss, tigers and lions roar,
And where the men, inhuman savages,
Are yet worse vermin, greater brutes than these?
Who would not for a danger that may be
Exchange a certain ruin that they see?
For such, unto our reason, or our fear,
Ours did in truth most manifest appear;
And how could we expect a better end,
When winds and seas seem'd only to contend,
Not which should conquer other in this war,
But in our wreck which should have greatest share?
The winds were all let loose upon the main,
And every wind that blew a hurricane,
Nereus's whole pow'r too muster'd seem'd to be,
Wave rode on wave, and every wave a sea.
Of our small bark gusts rush'd the trembling sides
Against vast billows that contain'd whole tides,
Which in disdainful fury beat her back
With such a force, as made her stout sides crack,
'Gainst others that in crowds came rolling in,
As if they meant their liquid walls between
T'engage the wretched hulk, and crush her flat,
And make her squeeze to death her dying freight.
Sometimes she on a mountain's ridge would ride,
And from that height her gliding keel then slide
Into a gulf yawning, and deep as Hell,
Whilst we were swooning all the while we fell;
Then by another billow rais'd so high,
As if the sea would dart her into th' sky,
To be a pinnace to the Argosy;
Then down a precipice so low and steep,
As it had been the bottom of the deep:
Thus whilst we up and down, and to and fro,
Were miserably toss'd and bandi'd so,
'Twas strange our little Pink, though ne'er so tight,
Could weather't so, and keep herself upright;
Or was not sunk with weight of our despair,
For hope, alas! could find no anch'ring there:
Her prow, and poop, star-board, and lar-board side
B'ing with these elements so hotly pli'd,
'Twas no less than a miracle her seams
Not ripp'd and open'd, and her very beams
Continu'd faithful in these loud extremes;
That her tall masts, so often bow'd and bent
With gust on gust, were not already spent;
That all, or anything indeed withstood
A sea so hollow, such a high wrought flood.

Here, where no sea-man's art nor strength avails,
Where use of compass, rudder, or of sails,
There now was none; the mariners all stood
Bloodless and cold as we; or though they cou'd
Something, perhaps, have help'd in such a stress,
Were ev'ry one astonished ne'ertheless
To that degree, they either had no heart
Their art to use, or had forgot their art.
Meanwhile the miserable passengers,
With sighs the hardest, the more soft with tears,
Mercy of Heav'n in various accents crav'd,
But after drowning hoping to be sav'd.
How oft, by fear of dying, did we die?
And every death, a death of cruelty,
Worse than worst cruelties provok'd impose
On the most hated, most offending foes.
We fanci'd death riding on every wave,
And every hollow seem'd a gaping grave:
All things we.saw such horror did present,
And all of dying too were so intent,
Ev'ry one thought himself already dead,
And that for him the tears he saw were shed.
Such as had not the courage to behold
Their danger above deck, within the hold
Utter'd such groans in that their floating grave,
As even unto terror terror gave;
Whilst those above pale, dead, and cold appear,
Like ghosts in Charon's Boat that failing were.
The last day's dread, which none can comprehend,
But to weak fancy only recommend,
To form the dreadful image from sick fear,
That fear and fancy both were height'ned here
With such a face of horror, as alone
Was fit to prompt imagination,
Or to create it where there had been none.
Such as from under hatches thrust a head
T'enquire what news, seem'd rising from the dead,
Whilst those who stayed above, bloodless with fear,
And ghastly look, as they new risen were.
The bold and timorous, with like horror struck,
Were not to be distinguished by their look;
And he who could the greatest courage boast
Howe'er within, look'd still as like a ghost.

Ten hours in this rude Tempest we were toss'd,
And ev'ry moment gave ourselves for lost,
Heav'n knows how ill prepar'd for sudden death;
When the rough winds, as they'd been out of breath,
Now seem'd to pant, and panting to retreat,
The waves with gentler force against us beat;
The sky clear'd up, the sun again shone bright,
And gave us once again new life and light;
We could again bear sail in those rough seas,
The sea-men now resume their offices;
Hope warm'd us now anew, anew the heart
Did to our cheeks some streaks of blood impart;
And in two hours, or very little more,
We came to anchor Falcon-shot from shore,
The very same we left the morn before;
Where now in a yet working sea, and high,
Until the wind shall veer, we rolling lie,
Resting secure from present fear; but then
The dangers we escap'd must tempt agen;
Which if again I safely shall get through,
(And sure I know the worst the sea can do)
So soon as I shall touch my native land,
I'll thence ride post to kiss your Lordship's hand.





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