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| ONE night mid swarthy forms I lay, | |
| Along a wild southeastern bay, | |
| Within a cabin rude and rough, | |
| Formed out of drift-wood, wrecker’s stuff, | |
| And firelight throwing rosy flame | 5 |
| From up-heaped masses of the same,— | |
| Waiting the turning of the tide | |
| To launch the surf-boats scattered wide, | |
| And try the fisher’s hardy toil | |
| For bass, and other finny spoil. | 10 |
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| They lay around me, young and old, | |
| But men of hardy mien and mould, | |
| Whom one had picked some deed to do | |
| Demanding iron hearts and true, | |
| But whom one had not picked, if wise, | 15 |
| For playing tricks to blinded eyes, | |
| Without expecting, at the end, | |
| To learn the odds ’twixt foe and friend! | |
| |
| Some leaned upon their arms, and slept; | |
| But others wakeful vigil kept, | 20 |
| And told short stories,—merry, half, | |
| And some too earnest for a laugh. | |
| And I—I listened, as I might, | |
| With strange and weird and wild delight, | |
| To hear the surfmen, in their haunt, | 25 |
| On deeds and loves and hates descant. | |
| |
| One gray old man, of whom I heard | |
| No more than this descriptive word, | |
| “Old Kennedy,”—he rattled on, | |
| Of men and things long past and gone, | 30 |
| And seemed without one careful thought,— | |
| Till spark to tinder some one brought | |
| By hinting that he launched no more, | |
| Of late, his surf-boat from the shore, | |
| However wind and storm were rife | 35 |
| And stranded vessels perilled life. | |
| |
| “No! by the God who made this tongue!” | |
| And up in angry force he sprung,— | |
| “No!—never, while my head is warm, | |
| However wild beat sea and storm, | 40 |
| Launch I a boat, one life to save, | |
| If half creation finds a grave!” | |
| |
| A fearful oath!—I thought; and so | |
| Thought others, for a murmur low | |
| Ran round the circle, till, at length, | 45 |
| The wondering feeling gathered strength, | |
| And some, who had not known him long, | |
| Declared them words of cruel wrong, | |
| And swore to keep no friendly troth | |
| With one who framed so hard an oath. | 50 |
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| “You will not, mates?” the old man said, | |
| His words so earnest, dense, and dread | |
| That something down my back ran cold | |
| As at the ghostly tales of old. | |
| “You will not? Listen, then, a word! | 55 |
| And if, when you have fairly heard, | |
| You say a thoughtless oath I swore, | |
| I never fish beside you more!” | |
| |
| They listened: so did I, be sure, | |
| As Desdemona to her Moor, | 60 |
| Or that poor “wedding-guest” who heard | |
| The Ancient Mariner’s lengthy word. | |
| They listened; and no murmur broke | |
| The full, dead silence, as he spoke. | |
| |
| “You know me, mates,—at least the most,— | 65 |
| From Barnegat, on Jersey coast. | |
| ’T is time you listened something more, | |
| That drove me to another shore. | |
| |
| “Twelve years ago, at noon of life, | |
| I had a fond and faithful wife; | 70 |
| Two children, boy and girl; a patch; | |
| A drift-wood cabin roofed with thatch; | |
| And thought myself the happiest man | |
| The coast had known since time began. | |
| |
| “Ships wrecked: they never saw me flinch, | 75 |
| But fight the white surf, inch by inch, | |
| To save the meanest thing had breath, | |
| If danger seemed to threaten death. | |
| Yes,—more! I never once held back, | |
| If through the big storm, rushing black, | 80 |
| Some nabob’s riches I could save | |
| And give them to him from the wave. | |
| |
| “One night a large ship drove ashore, | |
| Not half a mile beyond my door. | |
| I saw the white surf breaking far; | 85 |
| I saw her beating on the bar; | |
| I knew she could not live one hour, | |
| By wood and iron’s strongest power. | |
| |
| “I was alone, except my boy,— | |
| Sixteen,—my wife’s best hope and joy; | 90 |
| And who can doubt, that is not mad, | |
| He was the proudest pride I had! | |
| I let him take the vacant oar; | |
| I took him with me from the shore; | |
| I let him try help save a life: | 95 |
| I drowned him, and it killed my wife!” | |
| |
| The old man paused, and dashed his hand | |
| Against his brow, to gain command; | |
| While all around, a hush like death | |
| Hung on the fisher’s trembling breath. | 100 |
| And pitying eyes began to show | |
| How rough men feel a rough man’s woe. | |
| Then he went on,—a few words more, | |
| That still an added horror bore. | |
| |
| “Somebody stole a cask or bale,— | 105 |
| At least so ran the pleasant tale. | |
| And while my boy was lying dead, | |
| My wife’s last breath as yet unfled, | |
| The city papers reeked with chat | |
| Of ‘pirate bands on Barnegat.’ | 110 |
| My name was branded as a thief, | |
| When I was almost mad with grief; | |
| And what d’ ye think they made me feel, | |
| When the last falsehood ground its heel,— | |
| ‘I had rowed out, that night, to steal!’ | 115 |
| |
| “No! if I ever row again, | |
| To save the lives of perilled men, | |
| Body and soul at once go down, | |
| And Heaven forget me as I drown!” | |
| |
| It was a direful oath, as well | 120 |
| When nothing more remained to tell, | |
| As it had been, when at the first | |
| His wrong and hate the old man nursed; | |
| But I have often thought, since then, | |
| The best of men are only men, | 125 |
| And some of us, at church and school, | |
| Who prattle of the Golden Rule,— | |
| Might find it hard, such weight to bear | |
| Of shame and outrage and despair, | |
| Without forgetting trust and troth | 130 |
| And hurling out as dread an oath. | |
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