The glimmering light around, below,
A sad wan face there fain would show;
But darkness claims the night’s last hour,
Enchaining it with mystic power.
In rugged outlines where they stand,
Tall, spectral cliffs shut out the land,
And shelter lend those forms who creep
On evil wings above the deep.
All noiselessly, with one consent,
Their work but on one object bent,
They carry out a sovereign will,
And never rest, and ne’er are still.
They look like beings who frequent
A nether world—their time is spent
In weaving sorrow, grief, and pain
For those who sail the boundless main.
Quite unaware, from out the night,
A ship glides forth so tall and white
Amid the darkness. Straightway she
Steers headlong to Eternity.
The vessel bears across the deep
A freight, who all unconscious sleep.
Gray gloom hath topped each frowning height
Which rising phantoms hide from sight;
With outstretched hands in air they loom,
The ship to beckon to its doom.
But no, not yet; ’tis not to be;
Thou’rt cheated! Look, thou angry sea!
Above the heights, there doth appear
A form, upholding high a spear
Of sparkling light! It is the morn!
The night is dead! The day is born!
“Begone!” she cries, her hand she rears;
“Bend low your heads, let fall your shears!
Away, you evil-meaning bands!
Aye! Hide your faces in your hands.
Together link yourselves and flee,
And leave the brave in peace with me.”
The ship is stayed. The helm they turn,
While sailors’ hearts within them burn
To see the rocks, the seething foam,
The whirlpool eddying round its home,
And giant cliffs so near at hand.
A treacherous path those spirits planned,
To lead them onward to their doom.
There soon they must have found a tomb,
Had not the morning’s early light
Reclaimed them from the clutch of night.
THE WATER FROG.
I wander far by bank and stream,
Then paddle back thro’ wave and foam,
Cross pebble stones, where waters leap;
A froth-clad doorway hides my home.
’Neath fern leaves’ shade I gently dream,
While circling weeds around me throng;
The restless waters softly flow,
Their babbling sounds like some sweet song.
When stronger grows the northern breeze,
The driven stream with noisy roar,
Blown foremost by the boisterous wind,
Bursts headlong thro’ my shivered door.
A twisted twig I hop or climb,
’Tis maddening pace at times we ride;
First, twirling gaily round in air,
Then smoothly on the waters glide.
Great frowning rocks above look down:
With scornful glance they watch my glee,
Aloud I croak, and broadly smile.
What matter if they angry be?
Our fleeting life is far too short,
Tho’ merry as it well can be;
The good, together with the bad,
Can sweeten still this world for me.
And when I reach my cosy home,
The bubbling waters shout “Hurrah,”
And hurrying onward, tell the tale
To other streams both near and far;
How I have braved the tempest’s din.
And now beneath the lofty pine,
While angry thunders make reply,
In sweet contentment I recline.