I.

The storm-fires burn with a lurid glow
In the sky above, in the sea below,
And a threatening wind with deafening roar,
Besieges the steamer abaft and before.
Her tall masts bend and her wet shrouds rattle—
God make the good ship strong for the battle!
 She is freighted with gold from mountain mines;
But all the red gold this world enshrines
Is worthless compared to the life she holds
In six times a hundred sentient souls.
The lofty, the lowly, the brave and fair:
Fathers, and mothers, and children are there.
Mariners, mariners! watch and beware!
Ah, listen again
To the wild refrain
Of the shrieking wind and the rattling rain!
How the huge waves raven, grapple and roar;
How they hiss and writhe behind and before.
They batter the keel and shake the strong beams,
Leap over the bulwarks and gnaw the seams,
While the steamer dashes their crests to spray,
And tramples them down on her homeward way.

II.

But what saith that sailor, hurried and pale?
He tells the captain a terrible tale,
For he starts, and his brow grows dark with care.
No need to whisper it—speak it out, speak!
“Danger—aye, peril!” With white lip and cheek,
Men turn to each other and murmur, “A leak!”
“To the pumps! to the pumps!” All hope lies there;
And a hundred men, with heart and hand,
Hasten away to obey the command.
The bilge water gains, but the good pumps play,
And the strong men toil through the livelong day,
And they still toil on through the grim, wild night,
In the smoke and steam, with their faces white,
While the storm-fires burn with a lurid glow,
In the sky above, in the sea below.
Faster and faster the bilge water flows;
Hotter and hotter the stifling air grows;
But no man fails in the terror and strife—
They battle for home, for loved ones, for life.
Bravely they battle,
While the rent shrouds rattle,
And the tall masts bend in the wind and rain,
And the angry surges
Chant death dirges
Far away over the heaving main.

III.

The water gains surely, higher and higher
It creeps up the furnaces, reaches the fire,
And simmering, sobbing, the red coals expire.
The engines are silent, but brave hearts toil on;
The pumps have all failed, but hope is not gone.
Foot to foot, hand to hand, weak, haggard and pale,
With rope girdled buckets and barrels they bail.
Bail, bail with faint hope now, but breathe not a fear,
And white lips still tremble with words of good cheer;
No thought of exhaustion, of hunger or pain,
Till they see but too well their efforts are vain.
The water still rises, sweeps over the floors,
Deluges the gangway, leaps in at the doors!
The men fly before it, fly gasping for breath,
While the black waves without
Roar, raven and shout,
And the wind and the rain
Peal a fearful refrain
  To the anthem of Death!
And the lost ship lies, with impotent motion,
A life-freighted wreck, on a storm-mad ocean.

IV.

O visions of land, with its old green hills,
Its sunny valleys, trees, blossoms and rills—
Of home far away, and the dear ones there;
Ye come to the doomed, in their deep despair,
Down in the valley and shadow of Death,
Counting their moments with tremulous breath,
  And waiting to die.
Ye come, when their beautiful hopes are dead,
When the grave is yawning beneath their tread;
When they turn their wild, beseeching eyes
From the angry sea to the angry skies,
As the groaning ship is sinking under;
When the lightnings flash,
And the rent spars crash,
And the waves keep time to the ceaseless thunder.
  Hearken! a cry!
Louder than billows, than wind and rain,
It rings like a joy-bell over the main;
A sail! a sail! ho, the signal!—She nears.
There is hope—there is hope, thank God! and tears
Bathe the pallid faces of noble men
And women, who wept not through all, till then.
The lifeboats are lowered, through blinding spray,
And the women and children are borne away
O'er the mountainous billows, weeping sore,
For the dear ones left they shall meet no more.
They have passed the danger so nobly braved,
And reached the ship. Thank God, they are saved!

V.

The shadows of twilight are falling fast,
The wind has died to a harmless blast;
But, alas! alas! for the sinking wreck,
And the brave men left on its foam-washed deck,
Whose wild eyes strain
Through the storm, in vain,
For the life-boats, the life-boats, that come not again.
O pitiless ocean! pitiless sky!
Is there no help? Must they die—all die?
Ay, the waves answer, with deafening roar,
Grappling like demons behind and before;
And the wreck, with a sudden lurching motion,
Goes down to the soundless deeps of ocean,
To the gates of Death, to the walls of Heaven,
A wild, despairing cry is driven.
The waves that followed the lost ship's track
LefTher below and came surging back;
And the storm-sprites sung a requiem, then,
O'er the graves of four times a hundred men.