By MRS. E. MARKHAM
What sound is it arrests our ear?
Is it the accents of despair,
It is the sufferers' dying prayer,
A tempest on the sea.
The howling winds, the distant cry,
The piercing shrieks, the tearful eye,
The seas are rolling; must they die
And perish in despair?
Is there no hope, no arm to save,
On the land or on the wave;
Dangers, death or distance brave,
To chain the tyrant down?
Again they bend their suppliant knee,
And gazing fearful on the sea,
Imploring heaven to set them free,
And bring them safe to land.
Confusion reigns mid such alarms,
To give up life with all its charms;
To sink in death's cold icy arms,
With terror must be fraught.
On that frail bark one sparkling gem
Outshines the costly diadem;
No royal blood, compared with him
Is worth a transient thought.
The heavens were lit, the lightnings gleam,
And round their ship a fiery stream;
The ocean yawned—a fearful scream—
She sank beneath the wave.
The omen bird now flaps its wings
And tidings from the ocean brings
O! who can touch the trembling strings
Or chaunt the funeral dirge.
Oregon Spectator, October 18, 1849.