Chapter 32

And something awoke in the slumbering heart Of the alien birds in their African air, And they paused, and alighted, and twitter'd apart, And met in the broad white dreamy square; And the sad slave woman, who lifted up From the fountain her broad-lipp'd earthen cup, Said to herself, with a weary sigh, "To-morrow the swallows will northward fly!"

CVI. DAWN ANGELS.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.--1856-

All night I watch'd, awake, for morning: At last the East grew all aflame, The birds for welcome sang, or warning, And with their singing morning came.

Along the gold-green heavens drifted Pale wandering souls that shun the light, Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted, Had beat the bars of Heaven all night.

These cluster'd round the Moon; but higher A troop of shining spirits went, Who were not made of wind or fire, But some divine dream-element.

Some held the Light, while those remaining Shook out their harvest-color'd wings, A faint unusual music raining (Whose sound was Light) on earthly things.

They sang, and as a mighty river Their voices wash'd the night away: From East to West ran one white shiver, And waxen strong their song was Day.

CVII. LE ROI EST MORT.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

And shall I weep that Love's no more, And magnify his reign? Sure never mortal man before Would have his grief again. Farewell the long-continued ache, The days a-dream, the nights awake, I will rejoice and merry make, And never more complain.

King Love is dead and gone for aye, Who ruled with might and main, For with a bitter word one day, I found my tyrant slain, And he in Heathenesse was bred, Nor ever was baptized, 'tis said, Nor is of any creed, and dead Can never rise again.

CVIII. TO WINTER.

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.--1859-

Ruling with an iron hand O'er the intermediate land 'Twixt the plains of rich completeness, And the realms of budding sweetness, Winter! from thy crystal throne, With a keenness all thy own Dartest thou, through gleaming air, O'er the glorious barren glare Of thy sunlit wildernesses, Thine undazzled level glances, Where thy minions' silver tresses Stream among their icy lances; While thy universal breathing, Frozen to a radiant swathing For the trees, their bareness hides, And upon their sunward sides Shines and flushes rosily To the chill pink morning sky. Skilful artists thou employest, And in chastest beauty joyest-- Forms most delicate, pure, and clear, Frost-caught starbeams fallen sheer In the night, and woven here In jewel-fretted tapestries. But what magic melodies, As in the bord'ring realms are throbbing, Hast thou, Winter?--Liquid sobbing Brooks, and brawling waterfalls, Whose responsive-voiced calls Clothe with harmony the hills, Gurgling meadow-threading rills, Lakelets' lisping wavelets lapping Round a flock of wild ducks napping, And the rapturous-noted wooings, And the molten-throated cooings, Of the amorous multitudes Flashing through the dusky woods, When a veering wind hath blown A glare of sudden daylight down?-- Naught of these!--And fewer notes Hath the wind alone that floats Over naked trees and snows; Half its minstrelsy it owes To its orchestra of leaves. Ay! weak the meshes music weaves For thy snared soul's delight, 'Less, when thou dost lie at night 'Neath the star-sown heavens bright, To thy sin-unchoked ears Some dim harmonies may pierce From the high-consulting spheres: 'Less the silent sunrise sing Like a vibrant silver string When its prison'd splendors first O'er the crusted snow-fields burst. But thy days the silence keep, Save for grosbeaks' feeble cheep, Or for snow-birds' busy twitter When thy breath is very bitter.

So my spirit often acheth For the melodies it lacketh 'Neath thy sway, or cannot hear For its mortal-cloaked ear. And full thirstily it longeth For the beauty that belongeth To the Autumn's ripe fulfilling;-- Heaped orchard-baskets spilling 'Neath the laughter-shaken trees; Fields of buckwheat full of bees, Girt with ancient groves of fir Shod with berried juniper; Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves; Heavy-headed nodding sheaves; Clumps of luscious blackberries; Purple-cluster'd traceries Of the cottage climbing-vines; Scarlet-fruited eglantines; Maple forests all aflame When thy sharp-tongued legates came.

Ruler with an iron hand O'er an intermediate land! Glad am I thy realm is border'd By the plains more richly order'd,-- Stock'd with sweeter-glowing forms,-- Where the prison'd brightness warms In lush crimsons through the leaves, And a gorgeous legend weaves.

CIX. ABIGAIL BECKER.

(_Off Long Point Island, Lake Erie, November 24th, 1854._)

AMANDA T. JONES.

The wind, the wind where Erie plunged, Blew, blew nor'-east from land to land; The wandering schooner dipp'd and lunged,-- Long Point was close at hand.

Long Point--a swampy island-slant, Where, busy in their grassy homes, Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt, And musk-rats build their domes;

Where gulls and eagles rest at need, Where either side, by lake or sound, Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed, And mallard ducks abound.

The lowering night shut out the sight: Careen'd the vessel, pitch'd and veer'd,-- Raved, raved the wind with main and might; The sunken reef she near'd.

She pounded over, lurch'd, and sank; Between two sand-bars settling fast, Her leaky hull the waters drank, And she had sail'd her last.

Into the rigging, quick as thought, Captain and mate and sailors sprung, Clamber'd for life, some vantage caught, And there all night they swung.

And it was cold--oh, it was cold! The pinching cold was like a vise: Spoondrift flew freezing,--fold on fold It coated them with ice.

Now when the dawn began to break, Light up the sand-path drench'd and brown, To fill her bucket from the lake, Came Mother Becker down.

From where her cabin crown'd the bank Came Abigail Becker tall and strong: She dipp'd, and lo! a broken plank Came rocking close along!

She pois'd her glass with anxious ken: The schooner's top she spied from far, And there she counted seven men That clung to mast and spar.

And oh, the gale! the rout and roar! The blinding drift, the mounting wave, A good half-mile from wreck to shore, With seven men to save!

Sped Mother Becker: "Children! wake! A ship's gone down! they're needing me! Your father's off on shore; the lake Is just a raging sea!

"Get wood, cook fish, make ready all." She snatch'd her stores, she fled with haste, In cotton gown and tatter'd shawl, Barefoot across the waste,

Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands, And nearer, nearer, full in view, Went shouting through her hollow'd hands: "Courage! we'll get you through!"

Ran to and fro, made cheery signs, Her bonfire lighted, steeped her tea, Brought drift-wood, watch'd Canadian lines Her husband's boat to see.

Cold, cold it was--oh, it was cold! The bitter cold made watching vain: With ice the channel laboring roll'd,-- No skiff could stand the strain.

On all that isle, from outer swell To strait between the landings shut, Was never place where man might dwell, Save trapper Becker's hut.

And it was twelve and one and two, And it was three o'clock and more. She call'd: "Come on! there's nought to do, But leap and swim ashore!"

Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear: She waded in the shallow sea; She waved her hands, made signals clear, "Swim! swim, and trust to me!"

"My men," the captain cried, "I'll try: The woman's judgment may be right; For, swim or sink, seven men must die If here we swing to-night."

Far out he mark'd the gathering surge; Across the bar he watch'd it pour, Let go, and on its topmost verge Came riding in to shore.

It struck the breaker's foamy track,-- Majestic wave on wave uphurl'd, Went grandly toppling, tumbling back, As loath to flood the world.

There blindly whirling, shorn of strength, The captain drifted, sure to drown; Dragg'd seaward half a cable's length, Like sinking lead went down.

Ah, well for him that on the strand Had Mother Becker waited long! And well for him her grasping hand And grappling arm were strong!

And well for him that wind and sun, And daily toil for scanty gains, Had made such daring blood to run Within such generous veins!

For what to do but plunge and swim? Out on the sinking billow cast, She toil'd, she dived, she groped for him, She found and clutch'd him fast.

She climb'd the reef, she brought him up, She laid him gasping on the sands; Built high the fire and fill'd the cup,-- Stood up and waved her hands!

Oh, life is dear! The mate leap'd in. "I know," the captain said, "right well, Not twice can any woman win A soul from yonder hell.

"I'll start and meet him in the wave." "Keep back!" she bade: "what strength have you? And I shall have you both to save,-- Must work to pull you through!"

But out he went. Up shallow sweeps Raced the long white-caps, comb on comb: The wind, the wind that lash'd the deeps, Far, far it blew the foam.

The frozen foam went scudding by,-- Before the wind, a seething throng, The waves, the waves came towering high, They flung the mate along.

The waves came towering high and white. They burst in clouds of flying spray: There mate and captain sank from sight, And, clinching, roll'd away.

Oh, Mother Becker, seas are dread, Their treacherous paths are deep and blind! But widows twain shall mourn their dead If thou art slow to find.

She sought them near, she sought them far, Three fathoms down she gripp'd them tight; With both together up the bar She stagger'd into sight.

Beside the fire her burdens fell: She paus'd the cheering draught to pour, Then waved her hands: "All's well! all's well! Come on! swim! swim ashore!"

Sure, life is dear, and men are brave: They came,--they dropp'd from mast and spar; And who but she could breast the wave, And dive beyond the bar?

Dark grew the sky from east to west, And darker, darker grew the world: Each man from off the breaker's crest To gloomier deeps was hurl'd.

And still the gale went shrieking on, And still the wrecking fury grew; And still the woman, worn and wan, Those gates of Death went through,--

As Christ were walking on the waves, And heavenly radiance shone about,-- All fearless trod that gulf of graves And bore the sailors out.

Down came the night, but far and bright, Despite the wind and flying foam, The bonfire flamed to give them light To trapper Becker's home.

Oh, safety after wreck is sweet! And sweet is rest in hut or hall: One story Life and Death repeat,-- God's mercy over all.

* * * * *

Next day men heard, put out from shore, Cross'd channel-ice, burst in to find Seven gallant fellows sick and sore, A tender nurse and kind;

Shook hands, wept, laugh'd, were crazy-glad; Cried: "Never yet, on land or sea, Poor dying, drowning sailors had A better friend than she.

"Billows may tumble, winds may roar, Strong hands the wreck'd from Death may snatch: But never, never, nevermore This deed shall mortal match!"

Dear Mother Becker dropp'd her head, She blush'd as girls when lovers woo: "I have not done a thing," she said, "More than I ought to do."

THE END.

+------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's notes: | +------------------------------------------+ | Non-ascii diacritical marks represented | | as follows: | |------------------------------------------| | | | [=a] a macron [)a] a breve | | [=e] e macron [)e] e breve | | [=i] i macron [)i] i breve | | [=o] o macron [)o] o breve | | [=u] u macron [)u] u breve | | | | [a:] two dots under a | | [.a] dot over a | +------------------------------------------+