Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the North-east; 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, "Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, For I can weather the roughest gale He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say what may it be? 66 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, O 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, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, And fast through the midnight dark and drear, And ever the fitful gusts between It was the sound of the trampling surf, c 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, 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! Miscellaneous Poems, 1841-46. IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. NO HAY PÁJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTAÑO. THE sun is bright, the air is clear, The darting swallows soar and sing, It seems an outlet from the sky, Spanish Proverb. All things rejoice in youth and love, For O! it is not always May! To some good angel leave the rest; For time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year's nest THE RAINY DAY. THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Some days must be dark and dreary. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school And hear the bellows roar, He goes on Sunday to the church, 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 Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Our fortunes must be wrought; THE rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow On such a tranquil night as this, ENDYMION. When sleeping in the grove, He dreamed not of her love. Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought; Nor voice, nor sound betrays Its deep, impassioned gaze. It comes the beautiful, the free, The crown of all humanity In silence and alone To seek the elected one. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep, Are fraught with fear and pain, No one is so accursed by fate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds-as if with unseen wings, "Where hast thou stayed so long?" GOD'S-ACRE. I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. In the sure faith that we shall rise again With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. This is the field and Acre of our God, TO THE RIVER CHARLES. RIVER! that in silence windest Four long years of mingled feeling, Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue Take their own celestial hue. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, Friends my soul with joy remembers! How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers On the hearthstone of my heart! That my spirit leans to thee; |