Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands,
And nearer, nearer, full in view,
Went shouting through her hollow'd hands:
"Courage! we'll get you through!"
Ran to and fro, made cheery signs,
Her bonfire lighted, steeped her tea,
Brought drift-wood, watch'd Canadian lines
Her husband's boat to see.
Cold, cold it was—oh, it was cold!
The bitter cold made watching vain:
With ice the channel laboring roll'd,—
No skiff could stand the strain.
On all that isle, from outer swell
To strait between the landings shut,
Was never place where man might dwell,
Save trapper Becker's hut.
And it was twelve and one and two,
And it was three o'clock and more.
She call'd: "Come on! there's nought to do,
But leap and swim ashore!"
Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear:
She waded in the shallow sea;
She waved her hands, made signals clear,
"Swim! swim, and trust to me!"
"My men," the captain cried, "I'll try:
The woman's judgment may be right;
For, swim or sink, seven men must die
If here we swing to-night."
Far out he mark'd the gathering surge;
Across the bar he watch'd it pour,
Let go, and on its topmost verge
Came riding in to shore.
It struck the breaker's foamy track,—
Majestic wave on wave uphurl'd,
Went grandly toppling, tumbling back,
As loath to flood the world.
There blindly whirling, shorn of strength,
The captain drifted, sure to drown;
Dragg'd seaward half a cable's length,
Like sinking lead went down.