Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LOSS OF THE 'EURYDICE'; MARCH 24, 1878, by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LOSS OF THE 'EURYDICE'; MARCH 24, 1878, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tired with the toils that know no end
Last Line: And praise the silent dead.
Subject(s): Eurydice (ship)


TIRED with the toils that know no end,
On wintry seas long doomed to roam,
They smiled to think that March could lend
Such radiant winds to waft them home;
Long perils overpast,
They stood for port at last,
Close by the fair familiar waterway,
And on their sunlit lee
All hearts were glad to see
The crags of Culver through the shining day;
While every white-winged bird,
Whose joyous cry they heard,
Seemed wild to shout the welcome that it bore
Of love from friends on shore.

Ah! brief their joy, as days are brief
In March, that loves not joy nor sun;
O bitter to the heart of grief
The port that never shall be won!
Fair ship, with all sail set,
Didst thou perchance forget
The changing times and treacherous winds of Spring?
And could those headlands gray
Rehearse no tale to-day
Of wrecks they have seen, and many a grievous thing?
Thy towering cliff, Dunnose,
Full many a secret knows, --
Cry out in warning voice! too much they dare;
Death gathers in the air!

A wind blew sharp out of the north,
And o'er the island ridges rose
A sound of tempest going forth,
And murmur of approaching snows;
Then through the sunlit air
Streamed dark the lifted hair
Of storm-cloud, gathering for the light's eclipse,
And fiercely rose and fell
The shriek of waves, the knell
Of seamen, and the doom of wandering ships;
As with an eagle's cry
The mighty storm rushed by,
Trailing its robe of snow across the wave,
And gulfed them like a grave.

It passed; it fell; and all was still;
But, homebound wanderers, where were they?
The wind went down behind the hill,
The sunset gilded half the bay;
Ah! loud bewildered sea,
Vain, vain our trust in thee
To bring our kinsfolk home, through storm and tide!
So sharp and swift the blow,
Thyself dost hardly know
Where now they rest whom thou didst bear and guide!
Our human hearts may break,
Cold Ocean, for thy sake, --
Thou not the less canst paint in colours fair
The eve of our despair.

Not hard for heroes is the death
That greets them from the cannon's lips,
When heaven is red with flaming breath,
And shakes with roar of sundering ships:
When through the thunder-cloud
Sounds to them, clear and loud,
The voice of England calling them by name;
And as their eyes grow dim
They hear their nation's hymn,
And know the prelude of immortal fame;
But sad indeed is this,
The meed of war to miss,
To die for England, yet in dying know
They leave no name but woe.

They cannot rest through coming years,
In any ground that England owns,
And billows salter than our tears
Wash over their unhonoured bones;
Yet in our hearts they rest
Not less revered and blest
Than those, their brothers, who in fighting fell;
Nor shall our children hear
Their name pronounced less dear,
When England's roll of gallant dead we tell;
For ever shall our ships,
There, at the Solent's lips,
Pass out to glory over their still bed,
And praise the silent dead.





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