162 THE WRECK OF THE POCAHONTAS.

It moans and thunders low and drear,-
Burn till the break of day!

Good night! I called to the gulls that sailed
Slow past me thro' the evening sky;
And my comrades, answering shrilly, hailed
Me back with boding cry.

A mournful breeze began to blow,

Weird music it drew thro' the iron bars, The sullen billows boiled below,

And dimly peered the stars;

The sails that flecked the ocean floor

From east to west, leaned low, and fled; They knew what came in the distant roar That filled the air with dread!

Flung by a fitful gust, there beat

Against the window a dash of rain,
Steady as tramp of marching feet
Strode on the hurricane.

It smote the waves for a moment still,
Level and deadly white for fear;

The bare rock shuddered,—an awful thrill
Shook even my tower of cheer.

THE WRECK OF THE POCAHONTAS. 163

Like all the demons loosed at last,

Whistling and shrieking, wild and wide, The mad wind raged, and strong and fast Rolled in the rising tide.

And soon in ponderous showers the spray, Struck from the granite, reared and sprung, And touched at tower and cottage grey, Where overwhelmed they clung

Half drowning to the naked rock;
But still burned on the faithful light,
Nor faltered at the tempest's shock,
Through all the fearful night.

Was it in vain? That knew not we,
We seemed, in that confusion vast

Of rushing wind and roaring sea,
One point whereon was cast

The whole Atlantic's weight of brine.

Heaven help the ship should drift our way!

No matter how the light might shine

Far on into the day.

When morning dawned above the din

Of gale and breaker, boomed a gun!

164 THE WRECK OF THE POCAHONTAS.

Another!

We who sat within,

Answered with cries each one.

Into each other's eyes with fear

We looked thro' helpless tears, as still,

One after one, near and more near,

The signals pealed, until

The thick storm seemed to break apart,
To show us, staggering to her grave,
The fated brig. We had no heart
To look, for naught could save!

One glimpse of black hull, heaving slow,
Then closed the mists o'er canvass torn
And tangled ropes, swept to and fro
From masts that raked forlorn.

Weeks after, yet ringed round with spray,
Our island lay, and none might land;
Though blue the waters of the bay
Stretched calm on either hand.

And when at last from the distant shore

A little boat stole out to reach
Our loneliness, and bring once more
Fresh human thought and speech,

THE WRECK OF THE POCAHONTAS. 165

We told our tale, and the boatman cried

"Twas the Pocahontas,-all were lost!

For miles along the coast the tide

Her shattered timbers tost."

Then I looked the whole horizon round,-
So beautiful the ocean spread
About us, o'er those sailors drowned!
"Father in Heaven," I said,

A child's grief struggling in my breast,
"Do purposely thy creatures meet
Such bitter death? How was it best
These hearts should cease to beat?

"O, wherefore! Are we naught to thee?

Like senseless weeds that rise and fall

Upon thine awful sea, are we

No more then, after all?”

And I shut the beauty from my sight,

For I thought of the dead that lay below; From the bright air faded the warmth and light, And there came a chill like snow.

Then I heard the far-off rote resound,

Where the breakers slow and slumberous rolled,

And a subtle sense of thought profound
Touched me with power untold.

And like a voice eternal spake

That wondrous rhythm, and "Peace be still,”
It murmured; "bow thy head, and take
Life's rapture and life's ill,

And wait. At last all shall be clear."
The long, low, mellow music rose
And fell, and soothed my dreaming ear
With infinite repose.

Sighing, I climbed the light-house stair,
Half forgetting my grief and pain;
And while the day died, sweet and fair,
I lit the lamps again.

ΤΟ Α

"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you that Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these.”—MATT. vi, 28, 29.

MAIDEN, with thy upturned vision,
And thy high aspiring thought,