University of Virginia Library

‘Lord, hearken to me!
Save all poor souls at sea!
Thy breath is on their cheeks,—
Their cheeks are wan wi' fear;
Nae man speaks,
For wha could hear?
The wild white water screams,
The wind cries loud;
The fireflaught gleams
On tattered sail and shroud!
Under the red mast-light
The hissing surges slip;
Thick reeks the storm o' night
Round him that steers the ship,—
And his een are blind,
And he kens not where they run.
Lord, be kind!
Whistle back Thy wind,
For the sake of Christ Thy Son!’

. . . And as she prayed she knelt not on her knee,
But, standing on the threshold, looked to Sea,
Where all was blackness and a watery roar,
Save when the dead light, flickering far away,
Flash'd on the line of foam upon the shore,
And showed the ribs of reef and surging bay!
There was no sign of life across the dark,
No piteous light from fishing-boat or bark,
Albeit for such she hush'd her heart to pray.
With tattered plaid wrapt tight around her form,
She stood a space, spat on by wind and rain,
Then, sighing deep, and turning from the Storm,
She crept into her lonely hut again.

'Twas but a wooden hut under the height,
Shielded in the black shadow of the crag:
One blow of such a wind as blew that night
Could rend so rude a dwelling like a rag.
There, gathering in the crannies overhead,
Down fell the spouting rain heavy as lead,—
So that the old roof and the rafters thin
Dript desolately, looking on the surf,
While blacker rain-drops down the walls of turf
Splash'd momently on the mud-floor within.
There, swinging from the beam, an earthen lamp
Waved to the wind and glimmered in the damp,
And shining in the chamber's wretchedness,
Illumed the household things of the poor place,
And flicker'd faintly on the woman's face
Sooted with rain, and on her dripping dress.
A miserable den wherein to dwell,
And yet she loved it well.

‘O Mither, are ye there?’
A deep voice filled the dark; she thrill'd to hear;
With hard hand she pushed back her wild wet hair,
And kissed him. ‘Whisht, my bairn, for Mither's near.’
Then on the shuttle bed a figure thin
Sat rubbing sleepy eyes:
A bearded man, with heavy hanging chin,
And on his face a light not over-wise.
‘Water!’ he said; and deep his thirst was quelled
Out of the broken pitcher she upheld,
And yawning sleepily, he gazed around,
And stretched his limbs again, and soon slept sound.
Stooping, she smooth'd his pillow 'neath his head,
Still looking down with eyes liquid and mild,
And while she gazed, softly he slumberëd,
That bearded man, her child.
And a child's dreams were his; for as he lay,
He uttered happy cries as if at play,
And his strong hand was lifted up on high
As if to catch the bird or butterfly;
And often to his bearded lips there came
That lonely woman's name;
And though the wrath of Ocean roared so near,
That one sweet word
Was all the woman heard,
And all she cared to hear.

Not old in years, though youth had passed away,
And the thin hair was tinged with silver gray,
Close to the noontide of the day of life,
She stood, calm featured like a wedded wife;
And yet no wedded wife was she, but one
Whose foot had left the pathways of the just,
Yet meekly, since her penance had been done,
Her soft eyes sought men's faces, not the dust.
Her tearful days were over: she had found
Firm footing, work to do upon the ground;
The Elements had welded her at length
To their own truth and strength.

This woman was no slight and tear-strung thing,
Whose easy sighs fall soft on suffering,
But one in whom no stranger's eyes would seek
For pity mild and meek.
Man's height was hers—man's strength and will thereto,
Her shoulders broad, her step man-like and long;
'Mong fishermen she dwelt, a rude, rough crew,
And more than one had found her hand was strong.
And yet her face was gentle, though the sun
Had made it dark and dun;
Her silver-threaded hair
Was combed behind her ears with cleanly care;
And she had eyes liquid and sorrow-fraught,
And round her mouth were delicate lines, that told
She was a woman sweet with her own thought,
Though built upon a large, heroic mould.

Who did not know Meg Blane?
What hearth but heard the deeds that Meg had done?
What fisher of the main
But knew her, and her little-witted son?
For in the wildest waves of that wild coast
Her black boat hover'd and her net was tost,
And lonely in the watery solitude
The son and mother fished for daily food.
When on calm nights the herring hosts went by,
Her frail boat followed the red smacks from shore
And steering in the stern the man would lie
While Meg was hoisting sail or plying oar;
Till, a black speck against the morning sky,
The boat came homeward, with its silver store.
And Meg was cunning in the ways of things,
Watching what every changing lineament
Of wind and sky and cloud and water meant,
Knowing how Nature threatens ere she springs.
She knew the clouds as shepherds know their sheep,
To eyes unskilled alike, yet different each;
She knew the wondrous voices of the Deep;
The tones of sea-birds were to her a speech.
Much faith was hers in God, who was her guide;
Courage was hers such as God gives to few,
For she could face His terrors fearless-eyed,
Yet keep the still sane woman's nature true.
Lives had she snatched out of the waste by night,
When wintry winds were blowing;
To sick-beds sad her presence carried light,
When (like a thin sail lessening out of sight)
Some rude, rough life to the unknown Gulf was going;
For men who scorned a feeble woman's wail
Would heark to one so strong and brave as she,
Whose face had braved the lightning and the gale,
And ne'er grown pale,
Before the shrill threat of the murderous Sea.

Yet often, as she lay a-sleeping there,
This woman started up and blush'd in shame,
Stretching out arm embracing the thin air,
Naming an unknown name;
There was a hearkening hunger in her face
If sudden footsteps sounded on her ear;
And when strange seamen came unto the place
She read their faces in a wretched fear;
And finding not the object of her quest,
Her hand she held hard on her heaving breast,
And wore a white look, and drew feeble breath,
Like one that hungereth.

It was a night of summer, yet the wind
Had wafted from God's wastes the rainclouds dank,
Blown out Heaven's thousand eyes and left it blind,
Though now and then the Moon gleamed moist behind
The rack, till, smitten by the drift, she sank.
But the Deep roared;
Sucked to the black clouds, spumed the foam-fleck'd main,
While lightning rent the storm-rack like a sword,
And earthward rolled the gray smoke of the Rain.

'Tis late, and yet the woman doth not rest,
But sitteth with chin drooping on her breast:
Weary she is, yet will not take repose;
Tired are her eyes, and yet they cannot close;
She rocketh to and fro upon her chair,
And stareth at the air!

Far, far away her thoughts were travelling:
They could not rest—they wandered far and fleet,
As the storm-petrels o'er the waters wing,
And cannot find a place to rest their feet;
And in her ear a thin voice murmurëd,
‘If he be dead—be dead!’
Then, even then, the woman's face went white
And awful, and her eyes were fixed in fear,
For suddenly all the wild screams of night
Were hushed: the Wind lay down; and she could hear
Strange voices gather round her in the gloom,
Sounds of invisible feet across the room,
And after that the rustle of a shroud,
And then a creaking door,
And last the coronach, full shrill and loud,
Of women clapping hands and weeping sore.

Now Meg knew well that ill was close at hand,
On water or on land,
Because the Glamour touched her lids like breath,
And scorch'd her heart: but in a waking swoon,
Quiet she stayed,—not stirring,—cold as death,
And felt those voices croon;
Then suddenly she heard a human shout,
The hurried falling of a foot without,
Then a hoarse voice—a knocking at the door—
‘Meg, Meg! A Ship ashore!’
Now mark the woman! She hath risen her height,
Her dripping plaid is wrapt around her tight,
Tight clenchëd in her palm her fingers are
Her eye is steadfast as a fixëd star.
One look upon her child—he sleepeth on—
One step unto the door, and she is gone:
Barefooted out into the dark she fares,
And comes where, rubbing eyelids thick with sleep,
The half-clad fishers mingle oaths and prayers,
And look upon the Deep.

. . . Black was the oozy lift,
Black was the sea and land;
Hither and thither, thick with foam and drift,
Did the deep Waters shift,
Swinging with iron clash on stone and sand.
Faintlier the heavy Rain was falling,
Faintlier, faintlier the Wind was calling,
With hollower echoes up the drifting dark!
While the swift rockets shooting through the night
Flash'd past the foam-flecked reef with phantom light,
And showed the piteous outline of the bark,
Rising and falling like a living thing,
Shuddering, shivering,
While, howling beastlike, the white breakers there
Spat blindness in the dank eyes of despair.
Then one cried, ‘She has sunk!’—and on the shore
Men shook, and on the heights the women cried;
But, lo! the outline of the bark once more!
While flashing faint the blue light rose and died.
Ah, God, put out Thy hand! all for the sake
Of little ones, and weary hearts that wake
Be gentle! chain the fierce waves with a chain!
Let the gaunt seaman's little boys and girls
Sit on his knee and play with his black curls
Yet once again!
And breathe the frail lad safely through the foam
Back to the hungry mother in her home!
And spare the bad man with the frenzied eye;
Kiss him, for Christ's sake, bid Thy Death go by—
He hath no heart to die!

Now faintlier blew the wind, the thin rain ceased,
The thick cloud cleared like smoke from off the strand,
For, lo! a bright blue glimmer in the East,—
God putting out His hand!
And overhead the rack grew thinner too,
And through the smoky gorge
The Wind drave past the stars, and faint they flew
Like sparks blown from a forge!
And now the thousand foam-flames o' the Sea
Hither and thither flashing visibly;
And gray lights hither and thither came and fled,
Like dim shapes searching for the drownëd dead;
And where these shapes most thickly glimmer'd by,
Out on the cruel reef the black hulk lay,
And cast, against the kindling eastern sky,
Its shape gigantic on the shrouding spray.

Silent upon the shore, the fishers fed
Their eyes on horror, waiting for the close,
When in the midst of them a shrill voice rose:
‘The boat! the boat!’ it said.
Like creatures startled from a trance, they turned
To her who spake; tall in the midst stood she,
With arms uplifted, and with eyes that yearned
Out on the murmuring Sea.
Some, shrugging shoulders, homeward turned their eyes,
And others answered back in brutal speech;
But some, strong-hearted, uttering shouts and cries,
Followed the fearless woman up the beach.
A rush to seaward—black confusion—then
A struggle with the surf upon the strand—
'Mid shrieks of women, cries of desperate men,
The long oars smite, the black boat springs from land!
Around the thick spray flies;
The waves roll on and seem to overwhelm.
With blowing hair and onward-gazing eyes
The woman stands erect, and grips the helm. . . .

Now fearless heart, Meg Blane, or all must die!
Let not the skill'd hand thwart the steadfast eye
The crested wave comes near,—crag-like it towers
Above you, scattering round its chilly showers:
One flutter of the hand, and all is done!
Now steel thy heart, thou woman-hearted one!
Softly the good helm guides;
Round to the liquid ridge the boat leaps light,—
Hidden an instant,—on the foaming height,
Dripping and quivering like a bird, it rides.
Athwart the ragged rift the Moon looms pale,
Driven before the gale,
And making silvern shadows with her breath,
Where on the sighing Sea it shimmereth;
And, lo! the light illumes the reef; 'tis shed
Full on the wreck, as the dark boat draws nigh.
A crash!—the wreck upon the reef is fled;
A scream!—and all is still beneath the sky,
Save the wild waters as they whirl and cry.