246

THE STORM.

And where these shapes most thickly glimmer'd by,
Out on the cruel reef the black hulk lay,
And cast, against the kindling eastern sky,
Its shape gigantic on the shrouding spray.

Silent upon the shore, the fishers fed

Their eyes on horror, waiting for the close,
When in the midst of them a shrill voice rose:
"The boat! the boat!" it said.

Like creatures startled from a trance, they turned
To her who spake; tall in the midst stood she,
With arms uplifted, and with eyes that yearned
Out on the murmuring Sea.

Some, shrugging shoulders, homeward turned their eyes,
And others answered back in brutal speech;
But some, strong-hearted, uttering shouts and cries,
Followed the fearless woman up the beach.

A rush to seaward-black confusion-then
A struggle with the surf upon the strand-
'Mid shrieks of women, cries of desperate men,

The long oars smite, the black boat springs from land!
Around the thick spray flies;

The waves roll on and seem to overwhelm.

With blowing hair and onward-gazing eyes

The woman stands erect, and grips the helm. . . .

Now fearless heart, Meg Blane, or all must die!
Let not the skill'd hand thwart the steadfast eye!
The crested wave comes near,-crag-like it towers
Above you, scattering round its chilly showers:
One flutter of the hand, and all is done!
Now steel thy heart, thou woman-hearted one!
Softly the good helm guides;

Round to the liquid ridge the boat leaps light,-
Hidden an instant,-on the foamy height,
Dripping and quivering like a bird, it rides.

LONGING FOR HOME.

Athwart the ragged rift the Moon looms pale,
Driven before the gale,

And making silvern shadows with her breath,
Where on the sighing Sea it shimmereth;
And, lo! the light illumes the reef; 'tis shed
Full on the wreck, as the dark boat draws nigh.
A crash!-the wreck upon the reef is fled!

A scream!—and all is still beneath the sky,
Save the wild waters as they whirl and cry.

247

Robert Buchanan.

LONGING FOR HOME.

I.

A song of a boat:

There was once a boat on a billow:

Lightly she rocked to her port remote,

And the foam was white in her wake like snow,

And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, And bent like a wand of willow.

2.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat
Went curtseying over the billow;

I marked her course till a dancing mote
She faded out on the moonlit foam,
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home;
And my thoughts all day were about the boat
And my dreams upon the pillow.

3.

I pray you hear my song of a boat,

For it is but short:

My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,
In river or port.

248

LONGING FOR HOME.

Long I looked out for the lad she bore,

On the open desolate sea,

And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,
For he came not back to me-

Ah me!

A song of a nest:—

There was once a nest in a hollow: Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, Soft and warm, and full to the brimVetches leaned over it purple and dim, With buttercup buds to follow.

5.

I pray you hear my song of a nest,
For it is not long:-

You shall never light, in a summer quest
The bushes among-

Shall never light on a prouder sitter,
A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter,
That wind-like did come and go.

6.

I had a nestful once of my own,

Ah happy, happy I!

Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown
They spread out their wings to fly-

O, one after one they flew away
Far up to the heavenly blue,

To the better country, the upper day,
And I wish I was going too.

And what is the shore where I stood to see

My boat sail down to the west?

DEATH.

Can I call that home where I anchor yet,
Though my good man has sailed?

Can I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hope hath failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went,

And the land where my nestlings be:
There is the home where my thoughts are sent,
The only home for me—

Ah me!

F. Ingelow.

DEATH.

THEY die-the dead return not. Misery
Sits near an open grave, and calls them over,
A youth with hoary hair and haggard eye.

They are the names of kindred, friend, and lover,
Which he so feebly calls. They all are gone,
Fond wretch, all dead! Those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain,

These tombs,-alone remain.

Misery, my sweetest friend, oh! weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled? I wonder not:
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm but transitory,—
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary.
This most familiar scene, my pain,

These tombs,-alone remain.

P. B. Shelley.

249

250

AIRLY BEACON.

AIRLY BEACON.

AIRLY Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the pleasant sight to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,
While my love climbed up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon,

Oh, the happy hours we lay
Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,

Courting through the summer's day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the weary haunt for me

All alone on Airly Beacon,
With his baby on my knee!

C. Kingsley.

THE MERRY LARK WAS UP AND SINGING.

THE merry, merry lark was up and singing,
And the hare was out and feeding on the lea;
And the merry merry bells below were ringing,
When my child's laugh rang through me.

Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard,
And the lark beside the dreary winter sea;
And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard
Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.

C. Kingsley.