The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 78, April, 1864. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

      They dropped their lines in the lazy tide,

          Drawing up haddock and mottled cod;

      They saw not the Shadow that walked beside,

          They heard not the feet with silence shod.

      But thicker and thicker a hot mist grew,

      Shot by the lightnings through and through;

      And muffled growls, like the growl of a beast,

      Ran along the sky from west to east.

      Then the skipper looked from the darkening sea

          Up to the dimmed and wading sun,

      But he spake like a brave man cheerily,

          "Yet there is time for our homeward run."

      Veering and tacking, they backward wore;

      And just as a breath from the woods ashore

      Blew out to whisper of danger past,

      The wrath of the storm came down at last!

      The skipper hauled at the heavy sail:

          "God be our help!" he only cried,

      As the roaring gale, like the stroke of a flail,

          Smote the boat on its starboard side.

      The Shoalsmen looked, but saw alone

      Dark films of rain-cloud slantwise blown,

      Wild rocks lit up by the lightning's glare,

      The strife and torment of sea and air.

      Goody Cole looked out from her door:

          The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone,

      Scarcely she saw the Head of the Boar

          Toss the foam from tusks of stone.

      She clasped her hands with a grip of pain,

      The tear on her cheek was not of rain:

      "They are lost," she muttered, "boat and crew!

      Lord, forgive me! my words were true!"

      Suddenly seaward swept the squall;

          The low sun smote through cloudy rack;

      The Shoals stood clear in the light, and all

          The trend of the coast lay hard and black.

      But far and wide as eye could reach,

      No life was seen upon wave or beach;

      The boat that went out at morning never

      Sailed back again into Hampton river.

      O mower, lean on thy bended snath,

          Look from the meadows green and low:

      The wind of the sea is a waft of death,

          The waves are singing a song of woe!

      By silent river, by moaning sea,

      Long and vain shall thy watching be:

      Never again shall the sweet voice call,

      Never the white hand rise and fall!

      O Rivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight

          Ye saw in the light of breaking day!

      Dead faces looking up cold and white

          From sand and sea-weed where they lay!

      The mad old witch-wife wailed and wept,

      And cursed the tide as it backward crept:

      "Crawl back, crawl back, blue water-snake!

      Leave your dead for the hearts that break!"

      Solemn it was in that old day

          In Hampton town and its log-built church,

      Where side by side the coffins lay

          And the mourners stood in aisle and porch.

      In the singing-seats young eyes were dim,

      The voices faltered that raised the hymn,

      And Father Dalton, grave and stern,

      Sobbed through his prayer and wept in turn.

      But his ancient colleague did not pray,

          Because of his sin at fourscore years:

      He stood apart, with the iron-gray

          Of his strong brows knitted to hide his tears.

      And a wretched woman, holding her breath

      In the awful presence of sin and death,

      Cowered and shrank, while her neighbors thronged

      To look on the dead her shame had wronged.

      Apart with them, like them forbid,

          Old Goody Cole looked drearily round,

      As, two by two, with their faces hid,

          The mourners walked to the burying-ground.

      She let the staff from her clasped hands fall:

      "Lord, forgive us! we're sinners all!"

      And the voice of the old man answered her:

      "Amen!" said Father Bachiler.

      So, as I sat upon Appledore

          In the calm of a closing summer day,

      And the broken lines of Hampton shore

          In purple mist of cloudland lay,

      The Rivermouth Rocks their story told;

      And waves aglow with sunset gold,

      Rising and breaking in steady chime,

      Beat the rhythm and kept the time.

      And the sunset paled, and warmed once more

          With a softer, tenderer after-glow;

      In the east was moon-rise, with boats off-shore

          And sails in the distance drifting slow.

      The beacon glimmered from Portsmouth bar,

      The White Isle kindled its great red star;

      And life and death in my old-time lay

      Mingled in peace like the night and day!