Classic Poem

Where Holyhead's small isle, by Mona's side,
Rears its rude mountains, 'midst the foaming tide,
South-Stack's bleak rock emerges from the deep,
Round whose bare sides the rolling billows sweep,
And frequent dash its pointed summit o'er,
When angry surges lash Caernarvon's shore,
Then back receeding in confusion, show
The dreadful chasm that opens wide below.
'T was when the north-wind blew a furious gale,
And little could the seaman's skill avail,
In distant view a lofty bark appear'd,
And with the varying gusts inconstant veer'd —
One moment half ingulf'd beneath the tide —
The next on mountain billows seen to ride —
Loud howl'd the winds, and drove the clouds along —
The sea-fowl scream'd the rugged cliffs among —
And oft beneath dark South-Stack's naked cone,
The demon of the storm was heard to moan,
Who, seated sullen in his briny cave,
Whose roof the fluctuating surges lave,
Survey'd the vessel struggling with the storm,
And the poor sailors's tempest-beaten form,
With gloomy joy — for, o'er the dreary view,
Night's deep'ning shades increasing horror threw,
An aged bard, affrighted and dismay'd,
With terror in his looks the scene survey'd,
And watch'd, with beaming heart and anxious eye,
The bark before the driving tempest fly,
Till her tall mast no more he could descry —
Then call'd on heav'n with many a prayer, to save
The gallant seamen from the yawning grave.
Still howl'd the winds, and still the ocean roar'd,
And 'gainst the rocks their foam the breakers pour'd;
But soon with joy he hail'd a welcome sight,
Ascending from the deep, the Queen of Night
Threw her soft lustre o'er the troubled tide —
The lovely radiance spread on every side —
Celestial music stole upon his ear —
Check'd in the fury of their wild career,
The waves with lessening murmurs sought the shore,
The blast's tremendous voice was heard no more.
O'er South-Stack's rock the glistening moonbeams stray'd,
And to the bard's astonish'd view display'd
A seraph form, array'd in robes of light,
Serene her looks, her smile divinely bright.
" The time shall come " the beauteous vision said,
" When this bleak rock, no more beheld with dread,
" Shall be to doubting mariners a guide,
" And shine the beacon of the dangerous tide;
" Augusta's sons my dictates shall obey,
" And here a monument of art display;
" A monument which shall preserve their name
" To future years, and give them lasting fame;
" A title shall be theirs, to Britons dear, —
" The suffering seaman's friends — and friends sincere. "