The Poet's Corner.

Dunstan Times, Issue 996, 20 May 1881, Page 3

The Poet's Corner.

THE WRECK OF^THE TARARUA.

111-fated comrades ! Oh, unhappy day ! Spreading a pall above our sunny isle, When shall thy sombre memory pass away, Or our blanched faces wear again a smile ? Never, alas ! fur all our joy has fled, Leaving our hearts to sorrow and to gloom; Thoughts have we only of the sea-tossed dead— Their sudden flight, their soul-affright-ing doom.

I see, in all its mis’ry spread, the wreck— Those dreadful waves that ev’ry moment sweep Where the frail women tremble on the deck, And the bewildered men their courage keep ; And now the boat, manned by strong hearts, yet sad, Forth on its mission speeds towards the shore; While those behind, now striving to bo glad, Survey the storm, nor fear the breakers’ roar.

More angry grows the sea, the vessel creaks, Wave after wave leaps with mad fury o’er. Oh, heaven 1 she’s breaking up ! Hear those wild shrieks— The last 1 the last ! for they shall shriek no more. Oh, the despair 1 struggle now for life ; How those fierce billows rage around the doomed. The infant child, the husband, the sweet wife, Gasp out each other’s name and are entombed.

Oh, God 1 what pain it is to contemplate Such horrors ; to behold the wretched throng, Despairing, mad, and sinking to their fate With gurgling cry—re-echoing loud and long; While from the shore comes back a rising wail Of fellow-creatures; there with ready hand, With longing hearts, to help, but, shudd’ring, pale. Know it were death to venture from the strand

Oh, sea 1 majestic, terrible, severe, In whose dread presence man is as a reed Tossed by a changeful blast; thou mighty fear 1 Crushing the soul, its pride, its valiant deed, When shall thy ravage cease ? thy wrath no more. Find its fell way into the peaceful homo ? When, broken-hearted, on the lonely shore, Shall the poor widowed mother cease to roam ?

But ’tis man’s destiny to mourn, and so Must his sad heart to mis’ry lie resigned; Here must he live, in agony of woe, Till the blest day when Earth is loft behind. Sleep on, ye happy dead, while, we, in grief, O’er your lone tombs let fall the gushing tear. Life’s sand soon runs to waste; and so relief Will come to us when dies our waning year. “■ Evening Star.” C.U.