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was not a great way off, and there was a constant passing to and fro, of ships-of-war between that island and the passes of the
Mississippi, and we might stumble upon one of these at any moment.
‘Sail ho!’
was now shouted from the mast.
head. ‘Where away!’
cried the officer of the deck.
‘Right ahead,’ said the look-out.
A few minutes only elapsed, and a second sail was descried, ‘broad on the starboard bow.’
But nothing came of these spectres; we passed on, seaward, without so much as raising either of them from the deck, and finally, the friendly robes of night enveloped us. When we at length realized that we had gained an offing; when we began to feel the welcome heave of the sea; when we looked upon the changing aspect of its waters, now darkening into the deepest blue, and breathed the pure air, fresh from the
Gulf, untainted of malaria, and untouched of mosquito's wing, we felt like so many prisoners who had been turned loose from a long and painful confinement; and when I reflected upon my mission, to strike for the right!
to endeavor to sweep from the seas the commerce of a treacherous friend, who had become a cruel and relentless foe, I felt, in full force, the inspiration of the poet:—
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range,
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell?
Not thou, luxurious slave,
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease,
Whom slumber soothes not—pleasures cannot please;
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense—the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
* * * * * * * * * Death!
Come when it will—we snatch the life of life;
When lost—what recks it—by disease or strife?
Let him who crawls, enamored of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;
Ours!
the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed;
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours, with one pang—one bound—escapes control.
His corpse may boast its wan and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life, may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
