That sailed the wintery sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.
The Skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old Sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
for I fear a hurricane.
"Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"
The skipper, he blew whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church bells ring,
Oh, say, what may it be?"
"Tis a fog-bell on a rock bound coast!" --
And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! I hear the sound of guns;
Oh, say, what may it be?"
Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light.
Oh say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,
On the rocks and hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!
Notes
In 1839 a blizzard hit the east coast, lasting many hours. Some accounts say 1000 ships were lost and over 40,000 lives. Longfellow may have been inspired, in part, by the wreck of the Waterville, Maine ship,Favorite on the reef of Norman's Woe off Gloucester, Massachusetts. All crew was lost, one which included a woman, who it is said, washed upon the shore still tied to the mast. There was another ship, The Deposit which shipwrecked with a woman aboard, but she was said to have survived, though her husband, the captain did not.
This excerpt from Longfellow's diary:
News of shipwrecks horrible, on the coast. Forty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one lashed to a piece of the wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe, where many of these took place; among others the schooner Hesperus.
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Comments
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thhe wreck of the hesperus
I had to learn this poem off by heart some fifty years ago at school
I enjoyed it then and still do ,I can see in my minds eye the storm
and the girl as described by Longfellow. It has helped me through
many a long night -
I read this quite a few years ago, I even borrowed the idea for a poorly written poem, about a real shipwreck on Boon Island, off the coast of Maine.
I could speak on the excessive sentimentality, the almost unintentional mock-heroic qualities, and they are there, but still, when the poem is over, despite those extravagances, there's something that draws the reader. Maybe despite these flaws, the action still has a charge beneath them, generated by the writing itself, an example of the subject being less important than the style. Not sure.
For though we recognize the excess, we also feel the onward movement of fate...like a stylized, formula movie, we know where it is going, but we may still enjoy watching it get there. All I really know is that despite knowing that all these flaws exist...I still like the poem, and enjoyed reading it again.





