| |
| THEY crossed the lonely and lamenting sea; | |
| Its moaning seemed but singing. “Wilt thou dare,” | |
| He asked her, “brave the loneliness with me?” | |
| “What loneliness,” she said, “if thou art there?” | |
| |
| Afar and cold on the horizon’s rim | 5 |
| Loomed the tall lighthouse, like a ghostly sign; | |
| They sighed not as the shore behind grew dim, | |
| A rose of joy they bore across the brine. | |
| |
| They gained the barren rock, and made their home | |
| Among the wild waves and the sea-birds wild; | 10 |
| The wintry winds blew fierce across the foam, | |
| But in each other’s eyes they looked and smiled. | |
| |
| Aloft the lighthouse sent its warnings wide, | |
| Fed by their faithful hands, and ships in sight | |
| With joy beheld it, and on land men cried, | 15 |
| “Look, clear and steady burns Boon Island light!” | |
| |
| And, while they trimmed the lamp with busy hands, | |
| “Shine far and through the dark, sweet light,” they cried; | |
| “Bring safely back the sailors from all lands | |
| To waiting love,—wife, mother, sister, bride!” | 20 |
| |
| No tempest shook their calm, though many a storm | |
| Tore the vexed ocean into furious spray; | |
| No chill could find them in their Eden warm, | |
| And gently Time lapsed onward day by day. | |
| |
| Said I no chill could find them? There is one | 25 |
| Whose awful footfalls everywhere are known, | |
| With echoing sobs, who chills the summer sun, | |
| And turns the happy heart of youth to stone; | |
| |
| Inexorable Death, a silent guest | |
| At every hearth, before whose footsteps flee | 30 |
| All joys, who rules the earth, and, without rest, | |
| Roams the vast shuddering spaces of the sea; | |
| |
| Death found them; turned his face and passed her by, | |
| But laid a finger on her lover’s lips, | |
| And there was silence. Then the storm ran high, | 35 |
| And tossed and troubled sore the distant ships. | |
| |
| Nay, who shall speak the terrors of the night, | |
| The speechless sorrow, the supreme despair? | |
| Still like a ghost she trimmed the waning light, | |
| Dragging her slow weight up the winding stair. | 40 |
| |
| With more than oil the saving lamp she fed, | |
| While lashed to madness the wild sea she heard; | |
| She kept her awful vigil with the dead, | |
| And God’s sweet pity still she ministered. | |
| |
| O sailors, hailing loud the cheerful beam, | 45 |
| Piercing so far the tumult of the dark, | |
| A radiant star of hope, you could not dream | |
| What misery there sat cherishing that spark! | |
| |
| Three times the night, too terrible to bear, | |
| Descended, shrouded in the storm. At last | 50 |
| The sun rose clear and still on her despair, | |
| And all her striving to the winds she cast, | |
| |
| And bowed her head and let the light die out, | |
| For the wide sea lay calm as her dead love. | |
| When evening fell, from the far land, in doubt, | 55 |
| Vainly to find that faithful star men strove. | |
| |
| Sailors and landsmen look, and women’s eyes, | |
| For pity ready, search in vain the night, | |
| And wondering neighbor unto neighbor cries, | |
| “Now what, think you, can ail Boon Island light?” | 60 |
| |
| Out from the coast toward her high tower they sailed; | |
| They found her watching, silent, by her dead, | |
| A shadowy woman, who nor wept nor wailed, | |
| But answered what they spake, till all was said. | |
| |
| They bore the dead and living both away. | 65 |
| With anguish time seemed powerless to destroy | |
| She turned, and backward gazed across the bay,— | |
| Lost in the sad sea lay her rose of joy. | |
| |
