The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, The sky was black and drear, When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name Alongside the last Buccaneer. "Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, When all others drive bare on the seas? Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador, Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?" "From a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no line can sound, Without rudder or needle we steer; Above, below, our bark, dies the sea-fowl and the shark, As we fly by the last Buccaneer. "To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde, A loud crash, and a louder roar; And to-morrow shall the deep, with a heavy moaning, sweep The corpses and wreck to the shore." The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride, In the breath of the citron shades; And Severn's towering mast securely now flies fast, Through the sea of the balmy Trades. From St Jago's wealthy port, from Havannah's royal fort, The seaman goes forth without fear; For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight Of the flag of the last Buccaneer. ***** EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE. (1845.) To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away. And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting place I asked, an early grave. Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I spake like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. ***** LINES WRITTEN IN AUGUST. (1847.) The day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o'er; Worn out with toil, and noise, and scorn, and spleen, I slumbered, and in slumber saw once more A room in an old mansion, long unseen. That room, methought, was curtained from the light; Yet through the curtains shone the moon's cold ray Full on a cradle, where, in linen white, Sleeping life's first soft sleep, an infant lay. Pale flickered on the hearth the dying flame, And all was silent in that ancient hall, Save when by fits on the low night-wind came The murmur of the distant waterfall.