MORNING.
Dark broke the daylight, cold and gray,
And sea-birds flecked the foaming spray,
Above the deep. The waves now dashed,
And rolling huge, so heavily lashed
Their watery fleece against the strand.
But yesterday, with loving hand,
They laved its face with warm caress,
And softly on its cheek did press.
The glowing sun, which blessed that day,
Now frowning clouds hid far away.
No tinted rays could burst the veil,
Which falling thick in showers of hail,
And stinging sleet, that blew so fierce,
The smallest floweret seemed to pierce;
And tossed aside the golden sheaf,
Or cut like steel each tiny leaf.
The breeze arose, but not to jest,
Or soothe those fears which breathe unrest;
It sprang up strong—not lightly gay—
Nor deigned with one rose-leaf to play;
But rushing madly to the wood,
Uprooted trees as there they stood,
Then threw them down among the gorse,
And crushed the ferns with cruel force.
When, whistling by the sea-girt dale,
It caused the fisherwife to pale;
And made the worn-out rafters quake,
The sleepers suddenly awake.
The busy smacksmen set their sail,
And trim their boats to ride the gale;
While aged seamen creep in sight
To glean the dangers of the night.
They long to join the gallant band,
Though wan of face and weak of hand,
And gaze upon the angry sea,
Which stirs the fading memory
To bring some peril past to each,
A lesson new, their age to teach,
When walking back to humble cot,
Each ache and ailment is forgot.
And in their homes the threadbare tale
Of wreck and rescue will not fail
The hours to enliven thro’ the day,
And chase aside the shadows gray,
Which, round their lives’ uncertain sea,
Now deepen where the warnings be
Of one last voyage which must be made
Ere sailings be for ever stayed.