The Argosy — page 257: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

240 PLYMOUTH HOE. On, softly by the banks of Dart The summer breezes blow; And gaily dancing past the Start The foam-topped ripples go— And nowhere upon English ground Such oaks and chestnuts grow, As where, right over Plymouth Sound, Stands out fair Plymouth Hoe! The Western Maid was homeward bound, Her crew were Devon men: ‘Crowd on all sail to make the Sound, We're almost home again !” (’Twas thus | heard the captain say) ‘With the west wind on our lee, To-night we'll lie in Plymouth Bay As snug as snug can be!” It was the autumn equinox That drove up Channel smart ; (There runs a cruel reef of rocks From Lizard Point to Start ‘‘God’s sake,”’ the older seamen said, ‘‘Furl sail till morning light, *T were mad to take the Western Maid Across the rocks to-night!” A creeping mist came slowly up And hid the land a-head ; ‘In Plymouth Bay I’m bound to sup,” The captain laughing said— Then came a shuddering, blinding shock, None spoke, for all could feel, The Western Maid was on the rock And its teeth were in her keel! Dear Lord! it is an awful thing To see a ship go down— With cries for help and hands thatcling, To see brave comrades drown, She just reeled back, our Western Maid, One wild bound in the air, “ May God forgive,’’—the captain said, And then—she was not there, (Oh, can you tell a fairer sight, That any land may show, Than the soft, blue night, when light by light, Steals out above, below ? The shipping lights a-swinging bright, And the harbour all a-glow, And the lights of the town as the dark creeps down That shine on Plymouth Hoe!) I think it was a dream I had (I knew not night from day): Once more I was a little lad And fished in Cawsand Bay— And old rough scenes of sailor life Went by me, strange and fleet, And then, I met and kissed my wife At home in Plymouth street! The Western Maid outside the Sound, Was lost six years ago: Why I was saved when better drowned, I’m sure I do not know— Her crew of ten, all Devon men, Washed in at morning flow: For tho’ we roam, we all come home, At last to Plymouth Hoe! G. B. STUART, Gomicbooks,.¢o