Part 7 (1/2)

It is not doom'd that she must mourn For ever;--One may yet return Who soon will dry her tears: And now that seven long years are flown, Though spent in anguish and alone, How short the time appears!

She looks upon the billowy Main, And the parting-day returns again; Each breaking wave she knows; And when she listens to the tide, Her child seems standing by her side; So like the past it flows.

She starts to hear the city-bell; So toll'd it when they wept farewell!

She thinks the self-same smoke and cloud The city domes and turrets shroud; The same keen flash of ruddy fire Is burning on the lofty spire; The grove of masts is standing there Unchanged, with all their ensigns fair; The same, the stir, the tumult, and the hum, As from the city to the sh.o.r.e they come.

Day after day, along the beach she roams, And evening finds her there, when to their homes All living things have gone.

No terrors hath the surge or storm For her;--on glides the aged form, Still restless and alone.

Familiar unto every eye She long hath been: her low deep sigh Hath touch'd with pity many a thoughtless breast: And prayers, unheard by her, are given, That in its mercy watchful Heaven Would send the aged rest.

As on the smooth and harden'd sand, In many a gay and rosy band, Gathering rare sh.e.l.ls, delighted children stray, With pitying gaze they pa.s.s along, And hush at once the shout and song, When they chance to cross her way.

The strangers, as they idly pace Along the beach, if her they meet, No more regard the sea: her face Attracts them by its solemn grace, So mournful, yet so sweet.

The boisterous sailor pa.s.ses by With softer step, and o'er his eye A haze will pa.s.s most like unto a tear; For he hath heard, that, broken-hearted, Long, long ago, that mother parted With her lost daughter here.

Such kindness soothes her soul, I ween, As through the harbour's busy scene, She pa.s.ses weak and slow.

A comfort sad it brings to see That others pity her, though free Themselves from care or woe.

The playful voice of streams and rills, The echo of the cavern'd hills, The murmur of the trees, The bleat of sheep, the song of bird, Within her soul no more are heard; There, sound for aye the seas.

Seldom she hears the ceaseless din That stirs the busy port. Within A murmur dwells, that drowns all other sound: And oft, when dreaming of her child, Her tearful eyes are wandering wild, Yet nought behold around.

But hear and see she must this day; Her sickening spirit must obey The flas.h.i.+ng and the roar That burst from fort, and s.h.i.+p, and tower, While clouds of gloomy splendour lower O'er city, sea, and sh.o.r.e.

The pier-head, with a restless crowd, Seems all alive; there, voices loud Oft raise the thundrous cheer, While, from on board the s.h.i.+ps of war, The music bands both near and far, Are playing, faint or clear.

The bells ring quick a joyous peal, Till the very spires appear to feel The joy that stirs throughout their tapering height: Ten thousand flags and pendants fly Abroad, like meteors in the sky, So beautiful and bright.

And, while the storm of pleasure raves Through each tumultuous street, Still strikes the ear one darling tune, Sung hoa.r.s.e, or warbled sweet; Well doth it suit the First of June, ”Britannia rule the Waves!”

What s.h.i.+p is she that rises slow Above the horizon?--White as snow, And cover'd as she sails By the bright suns.h.i.+ne, fondly woo'd In her calm beauty, and pursued By all the Ocean gales?

Well doth she know this glorious morn, And by her subject waves is borne, As in triumphal pride: And now the gazing crowd descry, Distinctly floating on the sky, Her pendants long and wide.

The outward forts she now hath pa.s.s'd; Loftier and loftier towers her mast; You almost hear the sound Of the billows rus.h.i.+ng past her sides, As giant-like she calmly glides Through the dwindled s.h.i.+ps around.

Saluting thunders rend the Main!

Short silence!--and they roar again, And veil her in a cloud: Then up leap all her fearless crew, And cheer till sh.o.r.e, and city too, With echoes answer loud.

In peace and friends.h.i.+p doth she come, Rejoicing to approach her home, After absence long and far: Yet with like calmness would she go, Exulting to behold the foe, And break the line of war.

While all the n.o.ble s.h.i.+p admire, Why doth One from the crowd retire, Nor bless the stranger bright?

So look'd the s.h.i.+p that bore away Her weeping child! She dares not stay, Death-sickening at the sight.

Like a ghost, she wanders up and down Throughout the still deserted town, Wondering, if in that noisy throng, Amid the shout, the dance, the song, One wretched heart there may not be, That hates its own mad revelry!

One mother, who hath lost her child, Yet in her grief is reconciled To such unmeaning sounds as these!

Yet this may be the mere disease Of grief with her: for why destroy The few short hours of human joy, Though Reason own them not?--”Shout on,” she cries, ”Ye thoughtless, happy souls! A mother's sighs Must not your bliss profane.

Yet blind must be that mother's heart Who loves thee, beauteous as thou art, Thou Glory of the Main!”

Towards the church-yard see the Matron turn!

There surely she in solitude may mourn, Tormented not by such distracting noise.

But there seems no peace for her this day, For a crowd advances on her way, As if no spot were sacred from their joys.

--Fly not that crowd! for Heaven is there!

It breathes around thee in the air, Even now, when unto dim despair Thy heart was sinking fast: A cruel lot hath long been thine; But now let thy face with rapture s.h.i.+ne, For bliss awaiteth thee divine, And all thy woes are past.

Dark words she hears among the crowd, Of a s.h.i.+p that hath on board Three Christian souls, who on the coast Of some wild land were wreck'd long years ago, When all but they were in a tempest lost, And now by Heaven are rescued from their woe, And to their country wondrously restored.

The name, the blessed name, she hears, Of that beloved Youth, Whom once she called her son; but fears To listen more, for it appears Too heavenly for the truth.

And they are speaking of a child, Who looks more beautifully wild Than pictured fairy in Arabian tale; Wondrous her foreign garb, they say, Adorn'd with starry plumage gay, While round her head tall feathers play, And dance with every gale.

Breathless upon the beach she stands, And lifts to Heaven her clasped hands, And scarcely dares to turn her eye On yon gay barge fast-rus.h.i.+ng by.

The das.h.i.+ng oar disturbs her brain With hope, that sickens into pain.

The boat appears so wondrous fair, Her daughter must be sitting there!

And as her gilded prow is dancing Through the land-swell, and gaily glancing Beneath the sunny gleams, Her heart must own, so sweet a sight, So form'd to yield a strange delight, She ne'er felt even in dreams.

Silent the music of the oar!

The eager sailors leap on sh.o.r.e, And look, and gaze around, If 'mid the crowd they may descry A wife's, a child's, a kinsman's eye, Or hear one family sound.