The White Squall

Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall) (1787–1874)

THE SEA was bright, and the bark rode well;

The breeze bore the tone of the vesper bell;

’T was a gallant bark with a crew as brave

As ever launched on the heaving wave.

She shone in the light of declining day,

And each sail was set, and each heart was gay.

They neared the land where in beauty smiles

The sunny shore of the Grecian Isles;

All thought of home, of that welcome dear

Which soon should greet each wanderer’s ear;

And in fancy joined the social throng

In the festive dance and the joyous song.

A white cloud glides through the azure sky,—

What means that wild despairing cry?

Farewell the visioned scenes of home!

That cry is “Help,” where no help can come;

For the White Squall rides on the surging wave,

And the bark is ’gulfed in an ocean grave.