The heavens are veined with fire
And the thunder, how it rolls!
In the lullings of the storm
The solemn church bell tolls
For lost souls!
But no sexton sounds the knell;
In that belfry, old and high,
Unseen fingers sway the bell,
As the wind goes tearing by!
How it tolls, for the souls
Of the sailors on the sea!
God pity them, God pity them,
Wherever they may be!
God pity wives and sweethearts
Who wait and wait, in vain!
And pity little Mabel,
With her face against the pane.
A boom! the lighthouse gun!
How its echo rolls and rolls!
’Tis to warn home-bound ships
Off the shoals.
See, a rocket cleaves the sky—
From the fort, a shaft of light!
See, it fades, and, fading, leaves
Golden furrows on the night!
What makes Mabel’s cheek so pale?
What makes Mabel’s lips so white?
Did she see the helpless sail
That, tossing here and there
Like a feather in the air,
Went down and out of sight—
Down, down, and out of sight?
Oh, watch no more, no more,
With face against the pane;
You cannot see the men that drown
By the Beacon in the rain!
From a shoal of richest rubies
Breaks the morning clear and cold;
And the angel of the village spire,
Frost-touched, is bright as gold.
Four ancient fishermen
In the pleasant autumn air,
Come toiling up the sands
With something in their hands,—
Two bodies stark and white,
Ah! so ghastly in the light,
With sea-weed in their hair.
Oh, ancient fishermen,
Go up to yonder cot!
You’ll find a little child
With face against the pane,
Who looks towards the beach,
And, looking, sees it not.
She will never watch again!
Never watch and weep at night!
For those pretty, saintly eyes
Look beyond the stormy skies,
And they see the Beacon Light.
—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
THE CARRONADE
A frightful thing had just happened; one of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four pound cannon, had become loose.