William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
The Tars of Columbia—1816Y
Think, while you safely till your fruitful fields,
Of him, the avenger of Oppression’s crimes,
Who ploughs a soil which blood and danger yields,
Through rocks and gulfs, the ocean’s gloomy vast,
To quell your foes, and guard your peaceful homes,
Who bides the battle’s shock and tempest’s blast.
And mingle with Affection’s cheering train,
How he’s exposed to Winter’s chilling frown,
Without a kindred soul to soothe his pain.
Some dreary, dark, tempestuous, howling night,
Let Fancy’s strong, adventurous wing aspire,
And poise o’er ocean on aerial height:
Survey the barks that bear our daring tars,
As round them Neptune’s howling whirlwinds blow,
And rend their sails, and crash their yielding spars;
Convulse the groaning vessel’s sturdy frame,
With lightning torches snatch’d from the vex’d sky,
Destruction’s angel whelms her all in flame.
No aid is near—the lamp of hope expires—
Terrific Death his haggard visage bares,
And ocean monsters fly the raging fires.
Who’ve boldly torn the British banner down,
And faced the mouths of her exploding guns;
E’en now they scorn to sully their renown!
Meet their unweeping eyes—and, ere an hour
Has flown one hundredth part away, the tide
Must quench their breath; their spirits do not cower!
And lift an honest orison to heaven;
Their homes upon their dying accents dwell,
And as they sink, they hope their sins forgiven.
As it descends, the waves around it glow;
’Tis Blakeley’s! he that halo gain’d in fight,
When Britain’s standard fell beneath his blow.
And scaly millions gambol in his grave;
Yet shall his spirit shine among the bless’d,
And fame embalm his memory on the wave.
A lonely, lingering sailor still survives!
From his frail plank he casts a hopeless gaze,
Yet still for life with the rough sea he strives.
Ere long the tempest flags, and dawn appears;
The sun rolls up the sky, “All, all are lost!”
He cries, “my comrades brave!”—thence gush his tears.
And on their sparkling bosoms dolphins play;
With lusty arms he stems the watery wild,
And thinks on friends and country far away.
His wife’s, and babe’s, and kindred’s dear embrace,
Shoots through his bosom like a burning dart,
At thought, that they no more shall see his face.
In hopes some passing vessel to descry;
Ploughing the waste of ever waving plains,
That at far distance meet the bending sky;
In the waste distance, and towards him roll,
But seems a friendly sail to his dim eyes,
Bringing sweet hope to cheer his sinking soul.
It comes the foaming herald of the storm.
’Tis not the whitening canvass that you see,
But the white winding-sheet to wrap thy form.
Far in the west, day’s radiant sovereign glows;
His cheering sway the finny nations own,
As o’er the deep his golden splendour flows.
As round him, through the brine, they flounce and frisk:
Then, on the western glories seems to muse,
Until the sun withdraws his flaming disk.
“While pleasure sparkles through the swarming main,
Illumes yon heaven, and robes my native shores;
I’m thrown adrift, the sport of direst pain!
And strain’d each sinew in the glorious cause;
Some cannon peal had drain’d my veins of blood,
And crown’d my mortal exit with applause!
By ocean monster, hunger, storm, or cold;
Without one messmate o’er my corse to weep,
And pay the honours due a sailor bold.”
And silence mingles with the gathering gloom;
Again the heavens are wrapp’d in rolling clouds,
And sea-mews shriek o’er many a watery tomb.
Chill are his brine-steep’d limbs, and numb’d, and tired—
The swelling mass of waves already reels—
The sky with flash, succeeding flash, is fired.
The shark and huge leviathan now roam—
Tremendous thunders shake the distant pole,
And ocean’s heaving breast is whelm’d in foam.
Perhaps a meteor’s.—Lives our seaman still?
Or drinks the insatiate shark his valiant blood?
This know, whate’er his fate, ’tis God’s just will.
Wild Fancy may his destiny disclose;
And call upon his country to admire
A sailor’s gallantry, and feel his woes.