Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
The Padstow Lifeboat
By Henry Sewell Stokes (1808–1895)I
Or the pure blood they boast;
My song is of the sterner stuff
That guards our native coast:
The hearts of oak that grow all round
The islands where we dwell,
Whose names have less of Norman sound,
And easier are to spell.
And blowing half a gale,
Round Stepper Point a schooner came,
But under close-reefed sail.
’T is a wild place to fetch, the waves
Break on the Doombar sands,
And from the hills the eddying winds
Perplex the steadiest hands.
But the ebb-tide runs fast,
And suddenly the land-wind blows,
And shakes each bending mast:
Soon back to sea she drifts away,
Nearing St. Minver’s shore;
Then grounds, and o’er her deck the high
Atlantic billows pour.
Her pride has been to save
In a stronger gale and darker hour,
And from a wilder wave.
Their names are: Harris, Truscott, French,
Hills, Cronnell, Brenton, May,
Varcoe, Bate, Bennett, Malyn, and
Intross and coastguard Shea.
And skill to guide withal;
Some more than some had proved their worth,
As chance to them did fall:
Shea for his human chivalry
The Imperial medal wore;
Intross and Varcoe’s breasts the words
“Crimea,” “Baltic,” bore.
No sturdier man than he;
In quest of Franklin’s bones he went
To the dread Arctic Sea.
Such was the staple of the crew,
Who worked with earnest will;
To see them breast the awful waves
Made the spectators thrill.
But may not reach her side;
And then to Polzeath Bay they steer,
But stronger runs the tide:
The breakers, as they heave and burst,
The buoyant boat submerge;
O’erturned she rights,—again o’erturned,
She drifts upon the surge!
And high Pentire rush down,
As dead or gasping on the rocks
The dauntless crew are thrown:
Of the thirteen but eight survive!
Shea, Truscott, breathe no more;
Varcoe and Cronnell, last Intross,
Come lifeless to the shore.
Save one the shore did reach,
Just where the stranded vessel lay,
On the Trebethic beach.
He, at the moment when she struck,
Was jerked into the wave;
And well he swam in sight of all,
But none was nigh to save.
And on the starlit strand
The weeping children, fatherless,
Still lingered, hand in hand.
And love and pity thrilled men’s hearts,
For sorrow makes all kin;
And not to honor bravery
Were more than shame,—were sin.
Went with a countless throng;
All but the splendid Irishman,
So gentle, brave, and strong:
And him to lone Lanherne they took,
Where manly tears did fall,
While other rites his ashes blessed
Within that ancient wall.