POETS AND POETRY. 247 



In seventeen hundred eighty-two, 



The first of New- Year's day, 

 This poor unhappy crew of men 



Were sadly swept away. 

 They from Nantucket shore put off, 



And for the bar did try, 

 In hopes to get on board a brig, 



But could not her come nigh. 

 The wind did blow, the sea ran high, 



They strove the brig to gain, 

 But all endeavors fruitless were, 



Their striving proved in vain. 

 Their boat upon the ocean fill'd, 



And two were then swept out, 

 And five remaining in her still, 



Some time were tossed about. 

 Their friends on shore saw their distress, 



And for their help did try, 

 But nothing could on time be done, 



It was their lot to die. 

 Four mournful widows left that day, 



And eleven children small, 

 And two besides that were unborn, 



Which makes thirteen in all. 

 Their sorrows surely must be great, 



Which I full well do know, 

 Having once shared the same fate 



And tasted the same woe. 



It was rather unfair in the author of the above 

 poem (?) to leave the reader in such an uncertain 

 frame of mind, for it must be left to conjecture what 

 " fate " the author " shared. " He or she says, " hav- 

 ing once shared the same fate, and tasted the same 

 woe" : it is of course impossible to tell whether the 

 author was once drowned and left behind thirteen 



