Poems Sigourney 1827/On the loss of the Steam Boat Ætna

by Lydia Sigourney

ON THE LOSS OF THE STEAM BOAT ÆTNA,

WITHIN SIGHT OF NEW YORK, SATURDAY AFTERNOON,
MAY 15, 1824.

        Her path was on the briny deep;
            Yet no white sail propell'd her course,
        Nor measured oar with graceful sweep
            Urged her to stem the billow's force;
        Self-moved, with fleecy track she past,
                Disdaining in her pride
        To woo the breeze or shun the blast,
                Or wait the rolling tide;
                    While boldly to the sky
                    Her ensign, wreathing high,
Inwrought with volumed smoke, and sparkling flame, she cast.

        Lightly o'er her bosom roved,
            Where rainbow mirth was shining,
        Forms revered and hearts beloved,
            In changeful groups combining;
                Childhood's smile,
                And Beauty's wile,
            Manhood with his brow of care,
            And matron tenderness were there:
        Above, the azure sky was glowing,
        Beneath, the flood, like silver flowing,
        Around in chequering light and shade,
        Her hues delighted Spring display'd;
            Velvet verdure deck'd the vales,
            Winding rivers, white with sails,
        Through their tufted margins stray'd;
Each dazzling scene, like moving picture, threw
Its colouring on the eye, and rapidly withdrew.

And now the setting sun, in liquid richness, pours
A flood of glory o'er the approaching shores
        Of that proud mart, which, like a queen
        Upon her island throne, is seen,
With thronging masts, and spires in long array:
                Then sparkling eyes were bent
                And ardent glances sent,
Through the soft misty curtains of declining day,
        To gain some vestige of their home;
            Gay Fancy decks the dome
                With flowers of joy;
        A richer blush steals o'er the virgin coy;
And lost in Fancy's trance, the mother clasps her boy

    Hark!—'tis the crash of thunder!—But no cloud
        Mantles the untroubled sky.
    Again!—it blends with cries of anguish loud,—
        In air disruptured members fly,
        Blood streams, and 'neath the water's roar
        Plunge deeply those who rise no more.
                    And ah! outstretch'd I see,
                        In nameless agony,
    Woman's imploring hand.—The piercing cry
    Of suffering innocence invades the sky.
    Haste—snatch them from the wreck;
                O God they faint—they die.

'Tis silent on the wave. The thunders sleep;
But many a stricken soul shall mourn their ire;
Still smiles the sun;—but many an eye shall weep
        Ere to his sea-girt chamber he retire:
        The expected guest—the sister fair,—
        The child, with fond, confiding air,—
        The friend, who with an angel's mein
        Illumed the dear, domestic scene—
    Ah! ask not—ask not where they are,
    Or why they come not!—See despair
            Rend from the mourning sire
    The few thin remnants of that silver hair,
Which, frosted o'er with age, e'en ruthless Time could spare.
Who to the orphan's arms its treasure shall restore?
Who bind the widow's heart, which breaking heals no more?

    Frail as a flower, beneath the blast of pain,
                How impotent and vain

    Is Man, to boast him of his zephyr's breath,
Man, whose whole race of life is on the verge of death!
                    He,—He alone, who trod
                    The waters as their God,
And from their dark embrace rescued the sinking form,
        Can, when the whelming surges roll,
        Draw with pierced hand, the unbodied soul
To that Eternal Ark, serene above the storm.

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