Memorial Poems on the Loss of the Eurydice
Memorial Poems on the Loss of the Eurydice#
In the days and weeks following the loss of the Eurydice, testimonial and memorial poems appeared in newspapers across Britain.
As Natalie Houston describes in Newspaper Poems: Material Texts in the Public Sphere, Victorian Studies, Vol. 50, No. 2, 2008, pp. 233-242:
The inclusion of poems within the Victorian newspaper resists a simple definition of the page’s contents as purely informational. In considering the reception history of newspaper poems, we have to wonder who actually read these pages and with what kind of attention. Perhaps a humorous poem served as a kind of relaxation for the mind wearied by data or by more letters to the editor about the price of meat (a recurring concern at mid-century). The meter and alternating rhyme typical of Victorian light verse make reading the poem a rapid and easy process, unlike the information that fills the rest of the page. Certainly, the indenting of poetic lines makes even short poems like sonnets visually stand out among the paper’s six tightly packed columns. The white space around the poems (and around the tables of racing results) possibly, even probably, caused some readers to look more closely at the text; it is just as likely that others immediately turned away, to information of immediate, practical advantage.
Vicorian Newspaper Poetry
“A Very Poetical Town”: Newspaper Poetry and the Working-Class Poet in Victorian Dundee KIRSTIE BLAIR Victorian Poetry Vol. 52, No. 1, Victorian Periodical Poetry (SPRING 2014), pp. 89-109 (21 pages) Published By: West Virginia University Press Victorian Poetry https://www.jstor.org/stable/43592678
Newspaper Poems: Material Texts in the Public Sphere Natalie M. Houston Victorian Studies Victorian Studies Vol. 50, No. 2, Papers and Responses from the Fifth Annual Conference of the North American Victorian Studies Association, Held Jointly with the Victorian Studies Association of Western Canada (Winter, 2008), pp. 233-242 (10 pages) https://www.jstor.org/stable/40060322?seq=1
FIVE MILLION POEMS, OR THE LOCAL PRESS AS POETRY PUBLISHER, 1800–1900 Hobbs, Andrew (2012) Five Million Poems, or the Local Press as Poetry Publisher, 1800–1900. Victorian Periodicals Review, 45 (4). pp. 488-492. ISSN 1712-526X https://clok.uclan.ac.uk/11418/1/45.4.hobbs.pdf
Pers. comm., Andrew Hobbs, 20/4/2022, it is interesting “that so many people turn to poetry in times of disaster, and also most of the poems you’ve found are published in places on or near the coast - Dundee, Liverpool, Montrose, Ulverston, Berwick, Drogheda - where geography meant more empathy?”
POETRY - THE LAST OF THE EURYDICE. - Tuesday, March 26th, 1878
Dundee Evening Telegraph, 1878-03-26, p. 2
Sunday, March 24, 1878.
The training-ship Eurydice—
As brave a craft, I ween,
As ever bore brave men who loved
Their country and their Queen-
Built when ship, sir, was a ship,
And not a steam machine.
A year or more she had been out
About the Indian seas;
And now, with all her canvas bent
Before homeward breeze,
Channel in her pride she came.
The saucy Eurydice.
“Only an hour from Spithead, lads:
Only an hour from home !”
So sang the captain’s cheery voice
As she clove the sunlit foam ;
And each young sea-dog’s heart sang back,
“Only hour from home !”
We saw the hills of Devon rise
Fair in the Sabbath sun.
We marked each hamlet gleaming white
The church spires one by one.
We thought we heard the church bells ring
To hail our voyage done !
No warning ripple crisped the wave,
To tell of danger nigh,
Nor looming rack, nor driving scud—
From out smiling sky,
With sound as the trump of doom,
The squall broke suddenly.
A giant squall of wind and snow
From off the Devon shore,
It caught us in its blinding whirl
One instant, and more—
For ere we dreamt of trouble near
All earthly hope was o’er.
No time to shorten sail- no time
To change the vessel’s course ;
The squall had caught her crowded masts
With swift, resistless force.
Only one shrill, despairing cry
Rose o’er the turmoil hoarse,
And broadside the great ship went down
Amid the swirling foam ;
And with her our four Hundred men
Went down, in sight home
(Fletcher and I alone were saved)–
Only an hour from home .
March 25- Noel Paton, in the Scotsman
tag: poem
Poetry - THE LOSS OF THE “EURYDICE,” SUNDAY, MARCH 25, 1878. - Saturday, March 30th, 1878
Isle of Wight Observer, 1878-03-30, p. 8
O’er the calm bosom of the treacherous sea,
The bright sun-shining on each snowy sail,
Onward she speeds, though shortly doomed to be
A victim to the fury of the gale.
Oae gust of wind, one blinding cloud of snow
That cast a gloom around her like the night,
One bitter cry of agony and woe,
And she had sunk for ever from our sight.
Fond hearts were waiting for her quiok return,
Fond eyea were gazing far across the main ;
Long may they watch, and long those hearts may yearn,
For those on earth they ne’er will see again !
Hearths will be desolate which were not so ;
Loud the sad cry is heard on every side,
And mourners weep in bitterness of woe
For those who in their country’s service died.
All England feels for those who now are left,
Widowed and fatherless, their loss to mourn ;
Of all their lived unes suddenly bereft
By fearful violence of the passing storm !
Shine down, O sun, with thy bright cheering face,
The world roils on as it has done before ;
Grant those who died have found iheir resting place
Above, where troubles shall be known no mure.
W. Stanley Smiih.
Ryde, March 25th, 1878.
tag: poem
Poetry - FOUNDERING OF THE “EURYDICE” IN SANDOWN BAY. - Saturday, March 30th, 1878
Isle of Wight Observer, 1878-03-30, p. 8
Men stood aghast, as well they might, to hear
The dreadful news last Monday morning brought:
A gallant ship, with past three hundred souls,
Hallf founded in the Bay on Sunday eve !
So awful sudden this catastrophe
That not a token reached the dwellers by
To tell them hundreds of their fellow men
Were, within eye-ken, struggling for their lives.
No sadder tale has ever yet been told
Or shipwreck’s horror, sudden and complete : —
A noble frigate, gaily homeward bound,
All her full press of suow-white canvas set,
In swan-like state came sailing past our Bay.
Over the waves majestic’ly she glides,
Replete with life and lignt —a nation’s pride—
An emblem of our rule upon the sea —
A sight to charm the eye and stir the pulse.
Sudden as ligutning’s strike, from Culver’s brow
Swoops the fierce squall, ‘midst blinding sleet and snow,
And, like a tiger springing on its prey,
Bore down that gallant vessel to her doom.
One moment saw her proudly ride the waves
Exultant in her beauty and her strength ;
The next, behind that curtain-cloud of storm.
Hopelessly stricken, crushed, and settling down.
So sank ihe Eurydice — as smart a craft
As ever bore our meteor flag aloft.
Home from the West Indies she had sped,
With wide-spread wings, and many a favouring gale,
Till England’s longed-for shores were reached at last :
Then, up the Channel, proud of har past fame,
The brave old frigate pressed upon her way,
With tensioned canvas spread ; to gain her port
She rounds the Wight, and there before her lies
The hoped-for haven— Portsmouth — full in sight,
With home and kindling holding welcome out,
Almost within the sea-worn wanderor’s grasp.
God! what a moment that to be struck down ;
To change home’s welcome for a watery grave ;
To strew three hundred corses on the shore
Where stalwart tonus, full of high hope and life,
Were looked for by thair kindred and their Queen.
The news has cast a grief-cloud o’er the land,
Dark’ning alike the palace and the cot ;
And words of heartfelt sympathy well forth
For those thus lost to us, and those bereaved.
In meek submission to the Divine will
We gather now our dead, who nobly died
In full discharge of duty — even so,
As though they fell in battle, face to face
With England’s direst foe. Above their grave
The sea lies calm, and golden-tinted clouds
Look down with a mild pity on the spot
Where lies the Eurydice ahd her brave crew.
Thomas Maton. Sandown, March 26th, 1878.
tag: poem
POETRY - THE LAST OF THE EURYDICE. - Friday, March 29th, 1878
Montrose Standard, 1878-03-29, p. 6
Sunday, March 24, 1878.
The training-ship Eurydice—
As brave a craft, I ween,
As ever bore brave men who loved
Their Country and their Queen —
Built when a ship, sir, was a ship,
And not a steam-machine.
A year or more she had been out
About the Indian seas ;
And now, with all her canvas bent
Before a homeward breese,
Up Channel in her pride she came,
The saucy Eurydice.
“Only an hour from Spithead, lads:
Only an hour from home!”
So sung the captain’s cheery voice
As she clove the sunlit foam ;
And each young sea-dog’s heart sang back,
“Only an hour from home !”
We saw the hills of Devon rise
Fair in the Sabbath sun
We marked each hamlet gleaming white—
The church spires one by one.
We thought we heard the church bells ring
To hail our voyage done!
No warning ripple crisped the wave
To tell of danger nigh.
Nor looming rock, nor driving scud ;
From out a smiling sky.
With sound as of the trump of doom,
The squall broke suddenly.
A giant squall of wind and snow
From off the Devon shore —
It caught us in its blinding whirl
One instant and no more
For ere we dreamt of trouble near
All earthly hope was o’er.
No time to shorten sail— no time
To change the vessel’s course ;
The squall had caught her crowded masts
With swift, resistless force.
Only one shrill despairing cry
Rose o’er the turmoil hoarse,
And broadside the great ship went down
Amid the swirling foam ;
And with her four hundred men
Went down, in sight of home
(Fletcher and I alone were saved)—
Only an hour from home !
March 25. Noel Paton.
tag: poem
[In an article - can we find the original?] - Saturday, April 13th, 1878
Isle of Wight Observer, 1878-04-13, p. 6
The following lines (signed “F. G.”) on the loss of the Eurydice, appears in the Baily’s Magazine for this month :
‘Twas on a bright and breezy day
A noble ship came sailing home,
Dashing from either bow the spray,
And ploughs up the milk white foam.
For the last time the gallant band,
Close to “Old England on the lee,”
Had said their prayers for those on land
Who asked God’s aid for those at sea.
The sun is sinking towards the west,
Tinging with gold the belying sail;
The sailors take their Sabbath rest,
And laugh and tell the oft-told tale.
The sister’s joy, the mother’s bliss,
The dream of meeting of old friends,
Of tight grasped hand, of lover’s kiss,
For all their hard-ships make amends.
No cheery-hearted coastguard fails
To point the ship to those who stand
Around– whose prayers are in the sails
Which waft her towards the friendly strand.
No wonder that the captain thought
With honest hope and pride of soul,
To bring the good ship, “smart and taut,”
Like a swift racehorse to the goal.
Mid life and hope the thick black clouds
Snow-filled that put the ship from view;
The fierce tornado strikes her shrouds,
She’s gone ! with all her home-bound crew.
The blood-red sun comes brightly back
And lightens up the evening sky,
And paints what was the vessel’s track,
As if in empty mockery
Alas ! for skill of human mind!
He from whom good and evil come,
Who rides upon the stormy wind,
Took the three hundred wanderers Home.
POETRY - WRECK OF THE EURYDICE. - Thursday, April 4th, 1878
Soulby’s Ulverston Advertiser and General Intelligencer, 1878-04-04, p. 3
WRITTEN ON A SICK BED
A sunny afternoon, so fair, so bright ;
A Sabbath afternoon, so free from care!
And those along the shore admire a sight
Which stirs the heart of Britons everywhere.
A noble ship returning from the seas,
A man of-war with sails all set and smart,
So she may haply catch the slightest breeze
To help her onward to the longed-for port.
And there on board the influence of the day
Makes itself felt, and men have leisure given
To rest, to read, to think, perchance to pray,
And raise the soul awhile from earth to heaven.
Look at the group upon the headland there,
Their eyes all dazed, their faces blanched with fear;
They gasp for breath, and ask ” Where is she now?
Tis but a moment since that she was here.’
A blinding snow storm falling fast and thick,
A sudden squall that comes from off the shore—
A lurch, a cry, then orders short and quick ;
Too late, too late— she sinks —is seen no more!
More than three hundred men now lie at rest
Beneath those treacherous waves so calm and clear ;
Three hundred of our bravest, bonniest, best;
All England feels the blow and sheds a tear.
Not for the lost alone, but for the left;
The widowed souls now weeping for their love;
The children fatherless; the parents reft
Of their dear boy, now ocean’s treasure-trove.
Shall we not all contribute to their needs,
And help these helpless ones, so sad and lorn?
Let sympathy end not in words, but deeds!
Remember ‘tis for us their hearts are torn!
– *Liverpool Mercury. *
tag: poem
Poetry - THE CLOSE OF THE VOYAGE. - Friday, April 5th, 1878
Dundee Evening Telegraph, 1878-04-05, p. 4
There sailed the ship Eurydice—
On board three hundred men,
With all her steady canvas spread,
For British seas again.
From far Bermuda’s isles she sailed,
That lie along the West,
And left the realm of setting suns
To seek the port of rest.
And now the Lizard’s past, and they
Descry the distant land
Loom dark along the rugged line
Of cloven rock and sand;
There rise before their eager gaze
Fair hamlets and rich towns,
There stretch stern Cornwall’s jagged cliffs,
There Devon’s gentle downs.
The Sabbath morning rises blue
Above the gloom of night,
And on their lee they hail with joy
The castled coast of Wight.
Serene among its sombre mists,
Like sea-beast in its lair ;
And on the crowded deck there stands
The happy crew at prayer.
No solemn warning from the sky
Broke o’er their glad repose,
As sweet upon the wintry air
The sounds of worship rose.
No voice from Nature’s myriad tongues
Foretold their danger near,
Within the sight of British land
They did not dream of fear.
But now the tempest fiend awoke,
And smote the mighty ship ;
And low upon the stormy deep,
Her lofty topmasts dip ;
As when through forests of the south
The dread tornado flies,
O’erthrown upon the shattered earth
The stately cedar lies.
Through open ports the waters rush
With swift and surging stream,
And like a giant stricken down,
She lies upon her beam.
And while wild shrieks of anguish fade
Into death’s feeble gasp
The engulfing billows clutch their prey
In their relentless grasp.
Sad fate ! condole for Britain’s loss;
Her brave three hundred men
Shall never tread her glorious soil
Or battle-decks again.
Amid her sorrow let her bow,
And weep like Niobe
While blighted hearts and homes lament
The lost Eurydice.
J. G. M.
tag: poem
Poetry. IN MEMORIAM. - Wednesday, April 3rd, 1878
Perthshire Constitutional & Journal, 1878-04-03, p. 4
Ho! merrily home with her gallant crew,
The dear old coast-line in full view,
Up Channel under a press of sail
She sped, careering before the gale.
Taut and trim as a ship should be,
For Spithead bound the Eurydice !
The church-bells chimed on the distant shore,
And the manriners dreamt that toil was o’er;
Of cheery greetings and loving smiles
For the sun-burnt lads from the tropic isles;
And all was sunshine, hope and glee
Around and aboard the Eurydice.
A change in the sky ! A sudden squall !
And the blinding sleet’s bewildering fall !
Down, down in a vortetx of foam and spray
Three hundred souls have been swept away !
Gone down in the doomed Eurydice–
Parce, precamur, Domine !
The storm flies over; the sunlight streams;
The teacherous bosom of ocean gleams;
There is little in sky or sea to tell
Of the terrible deed they plaaned so well.
Only some timbers, floating free,
Are left of the poor Eurydice !
Merciful Father ! this hour what tears
Fall, and will fall through the weary years ?
Fond friends bitterly, night and day,
Mourning the dear ones gone for aye;
Sadly raising the cry to Thee–
“O God, have pity on all at sea !”
Sad blow indeed ! Yet we’ll think with pride
Like British tars at their posts they died.
And what nobler grave than his native deep
Could the sailor choose for his long last sleep,
Where the roar of the surf shall ever be
The dirge of the Eurydice?
— Whitehall Review.
tag: poem
Poetry - H.M.S. “EURYDICE,” MARCH 24, 1878. - Tuesday, April 16th, 1878
Berwickshire News and General Advertiser, 1878-04-16, p. 4
“Eurydice,” twice-told, ill-fated name,
The fullest agony of grief to claim.
A bride beloved upon her marriage day
Snatched ruthlessly by death’s stern hand away.
Not her adoring lover’s destined bliss
Was nearer consummation than was this
Two oceans passed, and close at home once more
Gazed at in rapture from old England’s shore,
With all sails set, beneath a sunny sky,
Wind and tide favouring. What bliss is nigh !
Nay it is well-nigh grasped, that ” Welcome Home,”
When the proud ship plunged into the tomb,
As on the beauty of her out-spread wings
The fatal blast in frenzied fury springs,
Without a warning all those noble, brave
Young throbbing hearts are silenced ‘neath the wave
Without a warning o’er the calm bright sea,
A message called them to eternity.
Nor Orpheus’ self for his Eurydice
Knew the wide sorrow that felt for thee.
How many lives what love as true and strong,
Will to their close the grief for thee prolong ?
If Orpheus-like we fain would search the deep
For thy dear treasures that -within it sleep,
No power of wealth or talent can attain
To bring the warm life gushing back again ;
‘Twould be a cold and shadowy ghost alone
That could not for lost love and hope atone.
But oh ! begone, ye mystic shadows dim,
Let holier, brighter faith now point to Him !
Sleep, loved ones; “Sleep in Jesus;” may you rest
Till ” the sea yields her dead,” then fully blest,
May you, with Him, dwell through eternity
In that good land where shall be no more sea,
No tears, no partings, on that blissful shore,
Where gallant ship shall pass by nevermore.
M. J. K. — Graphic, April 6.
tag: poem
POETRY - THE EURYDICE. - Wednesday, April 24th, 1878
Greenock Telegraph and Clyde Shipping Gazette, 1878-04-24, p. 4
The day was bright and fair day could be,
The blue with many sail was dotted o’er;
Yet rode an angry surge upon the sea.
That dashed its unspent wrath and baffled roar
Around the frigate as she neared the shore—
The stout old ship Eurydice.
Her every sail was set, and cheerily
The crew responded to the boatswain’s call.
“Keep her before the wind awhile,” said he;
“We’ll make the port before the evenfall.
Stand by, my lads! for yonder comes squall—
A gale may be.”
Below was heard the cheery voice of song,
As kits were packed and hammocks were untied;
The hearty laugh as the joke along.
Or Jack described the beauties of his bride.
And suddenly stopped short— as by the side
Lurched the Eurydice.
Above, the sun was down, and thick the dark,
Dense clouds were driven before the rising blast;
And staggering ‘neath a cloud of sail, the bark
Tried to outspeed the sleet that hurried past;
While ever and anon her trembling mast
Dipped to the raging sea.
Then, rising, shook herself, as if to dare
The winds and waters to their very worst;
And gallant hearts and true were there
To brave the dangers that the good ship durst;
But fell, and stern adown the tempest burst,
And smote Eurydice.
No timid shriek was heard above the roar;
Captain and crew, each man was at his post;
No panic as the stout old ship heeled o’er.
And wisdom and good heart were needed most;
No craven heart, I ween, when all was lost,
And ’neath the waves sank she.
Then in the deadly gloom a moment white
Fluttered her dripping canvas the sky.
Like a pale ghost to greet the gathering night—
The silent hail of those about to die.
Into the deep without groan or cry
Vanished Eurydice.
Whose was the blame? Not theirs who fought with Death
That battle stiff and stern upon the deep
Unconquered; they but yielded up their breath ;
And still within their ocean-home they sleep.
While many a British heart their fame will keep
Who fought and died at sea.
G.L.
tag: poem
Poetry - SORROW ON THE SEA. - Saturday, May 11th, 1878
Drogheda Argus and Leinster Journal, 1878-05-11, p. 6
“There is sorrow on the sea—it cannot be quiet”— Jer. xlix. 23.
The following poem, written by the late Captain M. A. S. Hare, of the Eurydice, in a friend’s album some years since, will be read with mournful interest:–
I stood on the shore of the beautiful sea,
As the billows were roaming wild and free;
Onward they came with unfailing force,
Then backward turned in their restless course;
Ever and ever sound their roar,
Foaming and dashing against the shore;
Ever and ever they rose and fell,
With heaving and sighing and mighty swell ;
And deep seemed calling aloud to deep,
Lest the murmuring waves should drop to sleep.
In Summer and Winter, by night and by day,
Thro’ cloud and sunshine holding their way ;
Oh ! when shall the ocean’s troubled breast
Calmly and quietly sink into rest!
Oh when shall the waves’ wild murmuring cease,
And the mighty waters be hushed to peace?
It cannot be quiet—it cannot rest ;
There must be Bearing on ocean’s breast :
The tide must ebb, and the tide must flow,
Whilst the changing seasons come and go.
Still from the depths of that hidden store
There are treasures teased up along the shore ;
Tossed by the billows- then seized again—
Carrieed away by the rushing main
Oh, strangely glorious and beautiful sea !
Sounding forever mysteriously,
Why are the billows still rolling on,
With their wild and sad and musical tone?
Why is there never repose for thee ?
Why slumberest thou not, oh mighty sea?
Then the ocean’s voice I seemed to hear,
Mournfully, solemnly— sounding near,
Like a wail sent up from the caves below,
Fraught with dark memories of human woe.
Telling of loved ones, buried there,
Of the dying shriek and the dying prayer ;
Telling of hearts still watching in vain
For those who never shall come again :
Of the widow’s groans, the orphan’s cry,
And the mother’s speeehless agony.
Oh, no, the ocean can never rest
With such secrets hidden within its breast.
There is sorrow written upon the sea,
And dark and stormy its waves must be ;
It cannot be quiet, it cannot sleep.
That dark, relentless, and stormy deep.
But a day will come, a blessed day,
When earthly sorrow shall pass away ,
When the hour of anguish shall turn to peace,
And even the roar of the wares shall cease.
Then out from its deepest and darkest bed
Old Ocean shall render up her dead,
And, freed from the weight of human woes,
Shall unietly sink in her last repose.
No sorrow shall ever be written then
On the depths of the sea or the hearts of men,
But heaven and earth renewed shall shine ,
Still clothed in glory and light divine.
Then where shall the billows of ocean be?
Gone ! for in heaven shall be “no more at sea !”
‘Tis a bright and beautiful thing of earth,
That cannot share in the soul’s “new birth ;”
‘Tis a life of murmur and tossing and spray,
And at resting-time it must pass away.
But, oh thou glorious and beautiful sea,
There is health and joy and blessing in thee
Solemnly, sweetly, I hear thy voice,
Bidding me weep and yet rejoice—
Weep for the loved ones buried beneath,
Rejoice in Him who has conquered death ;
Weep for the sorrowing and tempest-tossed,
Rejoice in him who has saved the lost ;
Weep for the sin, the sorrow, and strife,
And rejoice in the hope of eternal life.
tag: poem
This poem also appeared at the end of The last Four Days of the Eurydice, by Captain E. H. Verney, R.N., 1878, with the following note: The following poem, which appeared in the " Christian" and other papers, was attributed to Captain M. Hare, but recently it has been ascertained , on good authorityy, that they were written by a Lady friend ; and committed to memory by Captain Hare, who afterwaards inserted them in an album.
THE EURYDICE. ACROSTIC ON THE WRECK OF THE EURYDICE. - Thursday, June 6th, 1878
Isle of Wight Times, 1878-06-06, p. 4
By J. S. Edwards, Sailor on H.M.S. Royal Adelaide.
Each heart was light and hopeful on board that noble ship,
Unconscious of the danger near before the sundown dip
Revealing to the light of day, ‘midst white sails spread around,
Youth’s gallant form and manhood strong, that now in death are found.
Dread cloud of woe which overcast their brightest hopes in night,
Immersing in engulfing death, the brave, the loved, the bright.
Come England, spread thy gen’rous hand in pity o’er their grave,
Endeavouring thus to honour those entombed beneath the wave.
tag: poem
Poetry - THE RAISING OF THE EURYDICE. - Friday, August 2nd, 1878
Newcastle Courant, 1878-08-02, p. 2
Return from death ! -return Eurydice !
Appear again — nor sojourn in the grave;
A thousand hearts are bleeding now for thee,
And Britain’s self is mourning for the brave.
No lute melodious charms the cavern’d deep,
To yield thee up, and life again restore :
With thee descending there for ever sleep
Those lov’d and gallant hearts for evermore.
Nor yet shall fable unremember’d fall
As thou returnuring seek’st again the sea.
The voice of Memory, Orpheus like shall I call,
And cry Eurydice! Eurydice!
From gallant life to death- one moment’s space,
A darken’d sun- a stroke of unseen wing,-
As though in air, some mystic Spirit chase
Had cross’d the world in wildest Wandering.
Down, down Eurydice- beneath the storm-
To hopeful gale- with all thy canvas spread-
Thou through the briny space did’st hide thy form,
And now we seek thee in thy rocky bed.
We seek thee now with love no fable knows,
In cavern’d deeps- not Hades seen more drear,
Nor Orpheus, sorrowing o’er his tender woes,
Could mourn a fate more sad or more severe.
We seek thee eagerly- and now the tears
Are mov’d again that fond Affection shed;
Lo ! to the light thy long-lost form appears,
And seems to bear a message from the dead.
In vain ! thy silent formn is changed and sad;
We must awhile thy memory forego,
Nor even with thy name restor’d be glad,
Whilst it retains a record of our woe.
Affection may not gaze upon thy wrack,—
Grief leaves Old Time to count the tearful cost,
For e’en like Orpheus, Memnory looking back
Is deemed to blend thee with the lov’d and lost.
Thomas SMITH
tag: poem
title=The_Home-Coming_of_the_Eurydice - Thursday, May 3rd, 1894
The Home-Coming of the Eurydice, Arthur Conan Doyle, 1894-05-03, p. ?
The Home-Coming of the Eurydice, Arthur Conan Doyle
1894
?
Conan Doyle, The Home-Coming of the Eurydice
Conan Doyle was a resident of Southsea at the time of the disaster. The poem was originally published in The Speaker: The Liberal Review dated March 24th, 1894, as “The Ballad of the Eurydice”. It was later collected as “The Home-Coming of the Eurydice”.
Poetry - The Home-Coming of the Eurydice
[Lost, with her crew of three hundred boys, on the last day of her voyage, March 23, 1878. She foundered off Portsmouth, from which town many of the boys came.]
Up with the royals that top the white spread of her!
Press her and dress her, and drive through the foam;
The Island’s to port, and the mainland ahead of her,
Hey for the Warner and Hayling and Home!
“Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just look at the green of it!
Look at the red cattle down by the hedge!
Look at the farmsteading—all that is seen of it,
One little gable end over the edge!”
“Lord! the tongues of them clattering, clattering,
All growing wild at a peep of the Wight;
Aye, sir, aye, it has set them all chattering,
Thinking of home and their mothers to-night.”
Spread the topgallants — oh, lay them out lustily!
What though it darken o’er Netherby Combe?
‘Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily—
On for the Warner and Hayling and Home!
“Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just see the long slope of it!
Culver is there, with the cliff and the light.
Tell us, oh tell us, now is there a hope of it?
Shall we have leave for our homes for to-night?”
“Tut, the clack of them! Steadily! Steadily!
Aye, as you say, sir, they’re little ones still;
One long reach should open it readily,
Round by St. Helens and under the hill.
“The Spit and the Nab are the gates of the promise,
Their mothers to them—and to us it’s our wives.
I’ve sailed forty years, and—By God it’s upon us!
Down royals, Down top’sles, down, down, for your lives!”
A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of it,
Heeling her, reeling her, beating her down!
A gleam of her bends in the thick of the wrack of it,
A flutter of white in the eddies of brown.
It broke in one moment of blizzard and blindness;
The next, like a foul bat, it flapped on its way.
But our ship and our boys! Gracious Lord, in your kindness,
Give help to the mothers who need it to-day!
Give help to the women who wait by the water,
Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the Wight.
Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter,
“Our boys are all gathered at home for to-night.”
The Loss of the Eurydice - Friday, May 3rd, 1918
Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1918-05-03, p. ?
Foundered March 1878.
THE Eurydice–it concerned thee, O Lord:
Three hundred souls, O alas! on board,
Some asleep unawakened, all un-
warned, eleven fathoms fallen
Where she foundered! One stroke
Felled and furled them, the hearts of oak!
And flockbells off the aerial
Downs’ forefalls beat to the burial.
For did she pride her, freighted fully, on
Bounden bales or a hoard of bullion?–
Precious passing measure,
Lads and men her lade and treasure.
She had come from a cruise, training seamen–
Men, boldboys soon to be men:
Must it, worst weather,
Blast bole and bloom together?
No Atlantic squall overwrought her
Or rearing billow of the Biscay water:
Home was hard at hand
And the blow bore from land.
And you were a liar, O blue March day.
Bright sun lanced fire in the heavenly bay;
But what black Boreas wrecked her? he
Came equipped, deadly-electric,
A beetling baldbright cloud thorough England
Riding: there did storms not mingle? and
Hailropes hustle and grind their
Heavengravel? wolfsnow, worlds of it, wind there?
Now Carisbrook keep goes under in gloom;
Now it overvaults Appledurcombe;
Now near by Ventnor town
It hurls, hurls off Boniface Down.
Too proud, too proud, what a press she bore!
Royal, and all her royals wore.
Sharp with her, shorten sail!
Too late; lost; gone with the gale.
This was that fell capsize,
As half she had righted and hoped to rise
Death teeming in by her portholes
Raced down decks, round messes of mortals.
Then a lurch forward, frigate and men;
‘All hands for themselves’ the cry ran then;
But she who had housed them thither
Was around them, bound them or wound them with her.
Marcus Hare, high her captain,
Kept to her–care-drowned and wrapped in
Cheer’s death, would follow
His charge through the champ-white water-in-a-wallow.
All under Channel to bury in a beach her
Cheeks: Right, rude of feature,
He thought he heard say
‘Her commander! and thou too, and thou this way.’
It is even seen, time’s something server,
In mankind’s medley a duty-swerver,
At downright ‘No or yes?’
Doffs all, drives full for righteousness.
Sydney Fletcher, Bristol-bred,
(Low lie his mates now on watery bed)
Takes to the seas and snows
As sheer down the ship goes.
Now her afterdraught gullies him too down;
Now he wrings for breath with the deathgush brown;
Till a lifebelt and God’s will
Lend him a lift from the sea-swill.
Now he shoots short up to the round air;
Now he gasps, now he gazes everywhere;
But his eye no cliff, no coast or
Mark makes in the rivelling snowstorm.
Him, after an hour of wintry waves,
A schooner sights, with another, and saves,
And he boards her in Oh! such joy
He has lost count what came next, poor boy.–
They say who saw one sea-corpse cold
He was all of lovely manly mould,
Every inch a tar,
Of the best we boast our sailors are.
Look, foot to forelock, how all things suit! he
Is strung by duty, is strained to beauty,
And brown-as-dawning-skinned
With brine and shine and whirling wind.
O his nimble finger, his gnarled grip!
Leagues, leagues of seamanship
Slumber in these forsaken
Bones, this sinew, and will not waken.
He was but one like thousands more,
Day and night I deplore
My people and born own nation,
Fast foundering own generation,
I might let bygones be–our curse
Of ruinous shrine no hand or, worse,
Robbery’s hand is busy to
Dress, hoar-hallowèd shrines unvisited;
Only the breathing temple and fleet
Life, this wildworth blown so sweet,
These daredeaths, ay this crew, in
Unchrist, all rolled in ruin–
Deeply surely I need to deplore it,
Wondering why my master bore it,
The riving off that race
So at home, time was, to his truth and grace
That a starlight-wender of ours would say
The marvellous Milk was Walsingham Way
And one–but let be, let be:
More, more than was will yet be.–
O well wept, mother have lost son;
Wept, wife; wept, sweetheart would be one:
Though grief yield them no good
Yet shed what tears sad truelove should.
But to Christ lord of thunder
Crouch; lay knee by earth low under:
‘Holiest, loveliest, bravest,
Save my hero, O Hero savest.
And the prayer thou hearst me making
Have, at the awful overtaking,
Heard; have heard and granted
Grace that day grace was wanted.’
Not that hell knows redeeming,
But for souls sunk in seeming
Fresh, till doomfire burn all,
Prayer shall fetch pity eternal.