Night And Morning.

The winds are piping loud to-night,
And the waves roll strong and high;
God pity the watchful mariner
Who toils 'neath yonder sky!

I saw the vessel speed away,
With a free, majestic sweep,
At evening as the sun went down
To his palace in the deep.

An aged crone sat on the beach,
And, pointing to the ship,
"She'll never return again," she said,
With a scorn upon her lip.

            -    -    -

The morning rose tempestuous,
The winds blew to the shore,
There were corpses on the sands that morn,
But the ship came nevermore!

Charles Sangster

Charles Sangster was a Canadian poet born on July 16, 1822, in Kingston, Ontario. Sangster is considered one of Canada's first poets of significance, and his work often reflects the Canadian wilderness and nationalist themes. Known for his collections "The St. Lawrence and the Saguenay" and "Hesperus and Other Poems and Lyrics," Sangster's poetry demonstrates a deep connection to Canadian landscapes and identity. He died on December 9, 1893. His contributions helped lay the foundation for future Canadian literature.

Charles Sangster

Rose.

Charles Sangster, Simple Poetry

Love And Truth.

Charles Sangster, Simple Poetry

Colin.

Charles Sangster, Simple Poetry

Death Of Wolfe.

Charles Sangster, Simple Poetry

English

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The sun oer the waters was throwing
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The winds are singing a death-knell
Out on the main to-night;
The sky droops low -- and many a bark
That sailed from harbors bright,
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The clouds are hanging a death-pall
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The waves are weaving a death-shroud
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By The Sea-Shore At Night.

Oh lapping waves!--oh gnawing waves!--
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All day the winds were out, and rode
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And the moon walks above them her bright road.

Yet none the less ye lift your hands,
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Oh sapping waves!--oh mining waves!--
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The Wreck Of The `Derry Castle'

Day of ending for beginnings!
Ocean hath another innings,
Ocean hath another score;
And the surges sing his winnings,
And the surges shout his winnings,
And the surges shriek his winnings,
All along the sullen shore.

Sing another dirge in wailing,
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.    .    .    .    .

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The Derelict.

North and south with the fickle tides,
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The death-ship follows her track of doom,
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Day after day the far white sails
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Day after day her black hull lifts
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The Shadow Boatswain

Don't you know the sailing orders?
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And the stranger in the harbor
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With the thunder of her canvas
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Piping to his shadow men.

Is it firelight or morning,
That red flicker on the floor?
Your good-by was braver, sweetheart,
When I sailed away before.

Think of this last lovely summer!
Love, what ails the wind to-night?
What's he saying in the chimney
Turns your berry cheek so white?

What a morning! How the sunlight
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