Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished They, the holy ones and weakly, And with them the Being Beauteous, With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! 777 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, The skipper he stood beside the helm, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow Then up and spake an old Sailor, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 'I pray thee, put into yonder port, 'Last night, the moon had a golden ring, The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, Colder and louder blew the wind, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 'Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.' He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat He cut a rope from a broken spar, '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. '0 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, But the father answered never a word, Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 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, And ever the fitful gusts between It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 778 The breakers were right beneath her bows, And a whooping billow swept the crew She struck where the white and fleecy waves But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, To see the form of a maiden fair, The salt sea was frozen on her breast, And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH Under a spreading chestnut-tree His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. |