 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
To throw his tools down—hastily unhook
The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word
That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone
To where a fearful foresight led him on.
Passing a neighbour's cottage in his way—
Mark Fenton's—him he took with short delay
To bear him company—for who could say
What need might be? They struck into the track
The children should have taken coming back
From school that day; and many a call and shout
Into the pitchy darkness they sent out,
And, by the lantern-light, peered all about,
In every roadside thicket, hole, and nook,
Till suddenly—as nearing now the brook—
Something brushed past them. That was Tinker's bark.
Unheeded he had followed in the dark
Close at his master's heels, but, swift as light,
Darted before them now. “Be sure he's right—
He's on the track,” cried Ambrose. “Hold the light
Low down—he's making for the water. Hark!
I know that whine—the old dog's found them, Mark.”
So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on
Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!
And all his dull contracted light could show
Was the black void and dark swollen stream below.
“Yet there's life somewhere—more than Tinker's whine—
That's sure,” said Mark. “So, let the lantern shine
Down yonder. There's the dog—and hark!“—
The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word
205
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone
To where a fearful foresight led him on.
Passing a neighbour's cottage in his way—
Mark Fenton's—him he took with short delay
To bear him company—for who could say
What need might be? They struck into the track
The children should have taken coming back
From school that day; and many a call and shout
Into the pitchy darkness they sent out,
And, by the lantern-light, peered all about,
In every roadside thicket, hole, and nook,
Till suddenly—as nearing now the brook—
Something brushed past them. That was Tinker's bark.
Unheeded he had followed in the dark
Close at his master's heels, but, swift as light,
Darted before them now. “Be sure he's right—
He's on the track,” cried Ambrose. “Hold the light
Low down—he's making for the water. Hark!
I know that whine—the old dog's found them, Mark.”
So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on
Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!
And all his dull contracted light could show
Was the black void and dark swollen stream below.
“Yet there's life somewhere—more than Tinker's whine—
That's sure,” said Mark. “So, let the lantern shine
Down yonder. There's the dog—and hark!“—
“Oh, dear!”
And a low sob came faintly on the ear,
Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,
Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught
Fast hold of something—a dark huddled heap,
Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee-deep
For a tall man, and half above it, propped
By some old ragged side-piles that had stopt
Endways the broken plank when it gave way
With the two little ones that luckless day.
“My babes! my lambkins!” was the father's cry.
One little voice made answer—“Here am I!”
'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouched, with face as white,
More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light,
Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips, drawn tight,
Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,
And eyes on some dark object underneath,
Washed by the turbid water, fixed like stone—
One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown,
Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.
There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock,
The doating father? Where's the unriven rock
Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part
As that soft, sentient thing—the human heart?
And a low sob came faintly on the ear,
Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,
Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught
Fast hold of something—a dark huddled heap,
206
For a tall man, and half above it, propped
By some old ragged side-piles that had stopt
Endways the broken plank when it gave way
With the two little ones that luckless day.
“My babes! my lambkins!” was the father's cry.
One little voice made answer—“Here am I!”
'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouched, with face as white,
More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light,
Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips, drawn tight,
Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,
And eyes on some dark object underneath,
Washed by the turbid water, fixed like stone—
One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown,
Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.
There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock,
The doating father? Where's the unriven rock
Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part
As that soft, sentient thing—the human heart?
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |