THE pilot's at the helm,
Yon vessel's course to mark;
Yet shall destruction soon o'erwhelm
The unsuspecting bark.
Triumphant now she rides
Upon the treach'rous waves,
Nor knows she thus securely glides
Towards the place of graves.
With joy the weary crew
Hail the Norwegian coast;
Its forests rich, its mountains blue,
Their native pride and boast.
But hark! what piercing cry
E'en now to heaven ascends ?
They lift their hopeless hands on high,
While fear their bosoms rends.
See, see the whirlpool yawn,
Prepared t' engulf them all !
Within its fatal influence drawn,
In vain for help they call.
The waters o'er them close,
They sink to rise no more:
In ocean's caverns they repose,
And friends their loss deplore.
Then drop the pitying tear,
And let the name be known
Of this insidious vortex, where
Destruction holds his throne.
See yonder hallow'd fane,
In far-fam'd Egypt rise,
From whence the numerous votive train
With incense cloud the skies.
There senseless mortals pray,
And worship at the shrine
Of him who styled "the god of day,"
By heathens deemed divine.
Renowned in days of old,
Its wealth and power increased,
And Potipherah, we are told,
Was once its chosen priest.
And though no longer there
They shed the victim's blood,
Yet still I ask you to declare
The city where it stood.
Whence that melodious strain
That dies upon the ear,
And at short intervals again
Returns, the heart to cheer.
The varying sounds unite
The concord to complete;
Breaking the silence of the night,
In chorus soft and sweet.
But why this chosen hour,
The hour of wonted rest,
To make the soul feel music's power ?
A pow'r by all confest.
The passing time to note,
Th' harmonious chord they swell:
The cause, though trac'd to years remote,
Tradition does not tell.
Then since we can't explore
What ages have conceal'd,
Name but the place,--I ask no more,--
'Tis all I wish revealed.
Hark ! heard you that deep groan,
Which dying pangs arrest ?
The stifled sigh, the hollow moan,
Wrung from the patriot's breast ?
Long did the suffering brave
Resist the o'erwhelming foe,
At last they found one common grave,
By cruel want laid low.
But first, by hunger keen
Impell'd, the murd'rous steel
They plunge into their fellow men;
Then share the loathsome meal.
Ambition views the deed,
Nor sickens at the sight;
'Tis rather deem'd a grateful meed,
In which she takes delight.
And when her blood-stain'd spear
At last admission gains
Into the city--not one there,
She finds, alive remains.
To mourn its ruin'd state
Your tearful tribute bring,
And name the town whose hapless fate
I've ventured thus to sing:
In Spain--in Old Castile,
Near Soria, it stood;
B.C. one hundred thirty three
Beheld this scene of blood.
Then write the names of all,
Combin'd, they'll bring to light
That beauteous orb which poets call
The splendid lamp of night.
Yon vessel's course to mark;
Yet shall destruction soon o'erwhelm
The unsuspecting bark.
Triumphant now she rides
Upon the treach'rous waves,
Nor knows she thus securely glides
Towards the place of graves.
With joy the weary crew
Hail the Norwegian coast;
Its forests rich, its mountains blue,
Their native pride and boast.
But hark! what piercing cry
E'en now to heaven ascends ?
They lift their hopeless hands on high,
While fear their bosoms rends.
See, see the whirlpool yawn,
Prepared t' engulf them all !
Within its fatal influence drawn,
In vain for help they call.
The waters o'er them close,
They sink to rise no more:
In ocean's caverns they repose,
And friends their loss deplore.
Then drop the pitying tear,
And let the name be known
Of this insidious vortex, where
Destruction holds his throne.
See yonder hallow'd fane,
In far-fam'd Egypt rise,
From whence the numerous votive train
With incense cloud the skies.
There senseless mortals pray,
And worship at the shrine
Of him who styled "the god of day,"
By heathens deemed divine.
Renowned in days of old,
Its wealth and power increased,
And Potipherah, we are told,
Was once its chosen priest.
And though no longer there
They shed the victim's blood,
Yet still I ask you to declare
The city where it stood.
Whence that melodious strain
That dies upon the ear,
And at short intervals again
Returns, the heart to cheer.
The varying sounds unite
The concord to complete;
Breaking the silence of the night,
In chorus soft and sweet.
But why this chosen hour,
The hour of wonted rest,
To make the soul feel music's power ?
A pow'r by all confest.
The passing time to note,
Th' harmonious chord they swell:
The cause, though trac'd to years remote,
Tradition does not tell.
Then since we can't explore
What ages have conceal'd,
Name but the place,--I ask no more,--
'Tis all I wish revealed.
Hark ! heard you that deep groan,
Which dying pangs arrest ?
The stifled sigh, the hollow moan,
Wrung from the patriot's breast ?
Long did the suffering brave
Resist the o'erwhelming foe,
At last they found one common grave,
By cruel want laid low.
But first, by hunger keen
Impell'd, the murd'rous steel
They plunge into their fellow men;
Then share the loathsome meal.
Ambition views the deed,
Nor sickens at the sight;
'Tis rather deem'd a grateful meed,
In which she takes delight.
And when her blood-stain'd spear
At last admission gains
Into the city--not one there,
She finds, alive remains.
To mourn its ruin'd state
Your tearful tribute bring,
And name the town whose hapless fate
I've ventured thus to sing:
In Spain--in Old Castile,
Near Soria, it stood;
B.C. one hundred thirty three
Beheld this scene of blood.
Then write the names of all,
Combin'd, they'll bring to light
That beauteous orb which poets call
The splendid lamp of night.
