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[THE DEATH-BRIDGE OF THE TAY.]
The night and the storm fell together upon the old town of Dundee,
And, trembling, the mighty firth-river held out its cold hand toward the sea.
Like the dull-booming bolts of a cannon, the wind swept the streets and the shores;
It wrenched at the roofs and the chimneys—it crashed 'gainst the windows and doors;
Like a mob that is drunken and frenzied, it surged through the streets up and down,
And screamed the sharp, shrill cry of “Murder!” o'er river and hill-top and town.
It leaned its great breast 'gainst the belfries—it perched upon minaret and dome—
Then sprang on the shivering firth-river, and tortured its waves into foam.
'Twas a night when the landsman seeks shelter, and cares not to venture abroad;
When the sailor clings close to the rigging, and prays for the mercy of God.
And, trembling, the mighty firth-river held out its cold hand toward the sea.
Like the dull-booming bolts of a cannon, the wind swept the streets and the shores;
It wrenched at the roofs and the chimneys—it crashed 'gainst the windows and doors;
Like a mob that is drunken and frenzied, it surged through the streets up and down,
And screamed the sharp, shrill cry of “Murder!” o'er river and hill-top and town.
It leaned its great breast 'gainst the belfries—it perched upon minaret and dome—
Then sprang on the shivering firth-river, and tortured its waves into foam.
'Twas a night when the landsman seeks shelter, and cares not to venture abroad;
When the sailor clings close to the rigging, and prays for the mercy of God.
Look! the moon has come out, clad in splendor, the turbulent scene to behold;
She smiles at the night's devastation—she dresses the storm-king in gold.
She kindles the air with her cold flame, as if to her hand it were given
To light the frail earth to its ruin, with the tenderest radiance of heaven.
Away to the north, ragged mountains climb high through the shuddering air;
They bend their dark brows o'er the valley, to read what new ruin is there.
Along the shore-line creeps the city, in crouching and sinuous shape,
With firesides so soon to be darkened, and doors to be shaded with crape!
To the south, like a spider-web waving, there curves, for a two-mile away,
This world's latest man-devised wonder—the far-famous bridge of the Tay.
It stretches and gleams into distance; it creeps the broad stream o'er and o'er,
Till it rests its strong, delicate fingers in the palm of the opposite shore.
But look! through the mists of the southward, there flash to the eye, clear and plain,
Like a meteor that's bound to destruction—the lights of a swift-coming train!
She smiles at the night's devastation—she dresses the storm-king in gold.
She kindles the air with her cold flame, as if to her hand it were given
To light the frail earth to its ruin, with the tenderest radiance of heaven.
Away to the north, ragged mountains climb high through the shuddering air;
They bend their dark brows o'er the valley, to read what new ruin is there.
Along the shore-line creeps the city, in crouching and sinuous shape,
With firesides so soon to be darkened, and doors to be shaded with crape!
To the south, like a spider-web waving, there curves, for a two-mile away,
This world's latest man-devised wonder—the far-famous bridge of the Tay.
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Till it rests its strong, delicate fingers in the palm of the opposite shore.
But look! through the mists of the southward, there flash to the eye, clear and plain,
Like a meteor that's bound to destruction—the lights of a swift-coming train!
O cruel and bloodthirsty tempest! we sons of humanity know,
Wherever and whene'er we find you, that you are our faithfulest foe!
You plow with the death-pointed cyclone wherever life's dwellings may be;
You spur your fire-steeds through our cities—you scuttle our ships on the sea.
The storm-shaken sailor has cursed you; white hands have implored you in vain;
And still you have filled Death's dominions, and laughed at humanity's pain.
But ne'er in the cave where your dark deeds are plotted and hid from the light,
Was one half so cruel and treacherous as this you have kept for tonight!
You lurked 'round this bridge in its building; you counted each span and each pier;
You marked the men's daily endeavors—you looked at them all with a sneer;
You laughed at the brain-girded structure; you deemed it an easy-fought foe,
And bided the time when its builders your easy-plied prowess should know.
O tempest! feed full with destruction! fling down these iron beams from on high!
But temper your triumph with mercy, and wait till the train has gone by!
Wherever and whene'er we find you, that you are our faithfulest foe!
You plow with the death-pointed cyclone wherever life's dwellings may be;
You spur your fire-steeds through our cities—you scuttle our ships on the sea.
The storm-shaken sailor has cursed you; white hands have implored you in vain;
And still you have filled Death's dominions, and laughed at humanity's pain.
But ne'er in the cave where your dark deeds are plotted and hid from the light,
Was one half so cruel and treacherous as this you have kept for tonight!
You lurked 'round this bridge in its building; you counted each span and each pier;
You marked the men's daily endeavors—you looked at them all with a sneer;
You laughed at the brain-girded structure; you deemed it an easy-fought foe,
And bided the time when its builders your easy-plied prowess should know.
O tempest! feed full with destruction! fling down these iron beams from on high!
But temper your triumph with mercy, and wait till the train has gone by!
O angels! sweet guardian angels!—who once in the body drew breath,
Till, wearied, you found the great river, and crossed on the black bridge of death,
You who, from the shores of the sun-land, fly back on the wings of the soul,
And round your frail earth-loves yet hover, and strive their weak steps to control,
Look out through the mists to the southward!—the hearts on yon swift-coming train,
So light and so happy this moment, are rushing to terror and pain!
Oh whisper a word to the driver, that till morning the bridge be not braved;
At the cost of a night lost in waiting, the years of these lives may be saved!
On yon cheer-freighted train there are hundreds, who soon beyond help will be hurled;
Oh whisper to them the dread secret, before it is known to the world!
On this home-lighted shore are full many who wait for their friends, blithe and gay;
They will wait through full many a night-time—through many a sorrow-strewn day.
The trim evening lamps from the windows their comfort-charged beauty will shed;
The fire will burn bright on the hearth-stone—its rays will be cheerful and red;
The sun will come out of the cold sea—the morning will rise clear and bright,
But death will eclipse all its radiance, and darken your world into night!
Till, wearied, you found the great river, and crossed on the black bridge of death,
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And round your frail earth-loves yet hover, and strive their weak steps to control,
Look out through the mists to the southward!—the hearts on yon swift-coming train,
So light and so happy this moment, are rushing to terror and pain!
Oh whisper a word to the driver, that till morning the bridge be not braved;
At the cost of a night lost in waiting, the years of these lives may be saved!
On yon cheer-freighted train there are hundreds, who soon beyond help will be hurled;
Oh whisper to them the dread secret, before it is known to the world!
On this home-lighted shore are full many who wait for their friends, blithe and gay;
They will wait through full many a night-time—through many a sorrow-strewn day.
The trim evening lamps from the windows their comfort-charged beauty will shed;
The fire will burn bright on the hearth-stone—its rays will be cheerful and red;
The sun will come out of the cold sea—the morning will rise clear and bright,
But death will eclipse all its radiance, and darken your world into night!
'Mid the lights that so gayly are gleaming yon city of Dundee within,
Is one that is waiting a wanderer, who long o'er the ocean has been.
His age-burdened parents are watching from the window that looks on the firth,
For the train that will come with their darling—their truest-loved treasure on earth.
“He'll be comin' the nicht,” says the father, “for sure the hand-writin's his ain;
The letter says, ‘Ha' the lamp lichted—I'll come on the seven o'clock train.
For years in the mines I've been toiling, in this wonderfu' West, o'er the sea;
My work has brought back kingly wages—there's plenty for you an' for me.
Your last days shall e'en be your best days; the high-stepping youngster you knew,
Who cost so much care in his raising, now'll care for himself and for you.
Gang not to the station to meet me; ye never need run for me more;
But when ye shall hear the gate clickit, ye maun rise up an' open the door.
We will hae the first glow of our greeting when nae one o' strangers be nigh,
We will smile out the joy o' our meeting on the spot where we wept our good-bye.
Ye maun put me a plate on the table, an' set in the auld place a chair;
An' if but the good Lord be willing, doubt never a bit I'll be there.
So sit ye an' wait for my coming (ye will na' watch for me in vain),
An' see me glide over the river, along o' the roar o' the train.
Ye may sit at the southernmost window, for I will come hame from that way;
I will fly where I swam, when a youngster, across the broad Firth o' the Tay.’”
Is one that is waiting a wanderer, who long o'er the ocean has been.
His age-burdened parents are watching from the window that looks on the firth,
For the train that will come with their darling—their truest-loved treasure on earth.
“He'll be comin' the nicht,” says the father, “for sure the hand-writin's his ain;
The letter says, ‘Ha' the lamp lichted—I'll come on the seven o'clock train.
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My work has brought back kingly wages—there's plenty for you an' for me.
Your last days shall e'en be your best days; the high-stepping youngster you knew,
Who cost so much care in his raising, now'll care for himself and for you.
Gang not to the station to meet me; ye never need run for me more;
But when ye shall hear the gate clickit, ye maun rise up an' open the door.
We will hae the first glow of our greeting when nae one o' strangers be nigh,
We will smile out the joy o' our meeting on the spot where we wept our good-bye.
Ye maun put me a plate on the table, an' set in the auld place a chair;
An' if but the good Lord be willing, doubt never a bit I'll be there.
So sit ye an' wait for my coming (ye will na' watch for me in vain),
An' see me glide over the river, along o' the roar o' the train.
Ye may sit at the southernmost window, for I will come hame from that way;
I will fly where I swam, when a youngster, across the broad Firth o' the Tay.’”
So they sit at the southernmost window, the parents, with hand clasped in hand,
And gaze o'er the tempest-vexed waters, across to the storm-shaken land.
They see the bold acrobat-monster creep out on the treacherous line;
Its cinder-breath glitters like star-dust—its lamp-eyes they glimmer and shine.
It braces itself 'gainst the tempest—it fights for each inch with the foe—
With torrents of air all around it—with torrents of water below.
But look! look! the monster is stumbling, while trembles the fragile bridge-wall—
They struggle like athletes entwining—then both like a thunder-bolt fall!
Down, down through the dark the train plunges, with speed unaccustomed and dire;
It glows with its last dying beauty—it gleams like a hail-storm of fire!
No wonder the mother faints death-like, and clings like a clod to the floor;
No wonder the man flies in frenzy, and dashes his way through the door!
He fights his way out through the tempest; he is beaten and baffled and tossed;
He cries, “The train's gang off the Tay brig! lend help here to look for the lost!”
Oh, little to him do they listen, the crowds to the river that flee;
The news, like the shock of an earthquake, has thrilled through the town of Dundee.
Like travelers belated, they're rushing to where the bare station-walls frown;
Suspense twists the blade of their anguish—like maniacs they run up and down.
Out, out, creep two brave, sturdy fellows, o'er danger-strewn buttress and piers;
They can climb 'gainst that blast, for they carry the blood of old Scotch mountaineers.
But they leave it along as they clamber; they mark all their hand-path with red;
Till they come where the torrent leaps bridgeless—a grave dancing over its dead.
A moment they gaze down in horror; then creep from the death-laden tide,
With the news, “There's nae help for our loved ones, save God's mercy for them who have died!”
And gaze o'er the tempest-vexed waters, across to the storm-shaken land.
They see the bold acrobat-monster creep out on the treacherous line;
Its cinder-breath glitters like star-dust—its lamp-eyes they glimmer and shine.
It braces itself 'gainst the tempest—it fights for each inch with the foe—
With torrents of air all around it—with torrents of water below.
But look! look! the monster is stumbling, while trembles the fragile bridge-wall—
They struggle like athletes entwining—then both like a thunder-bolt fall!
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It glows with its last dying beauty—it gleams like a hail-storm of fire!
No wonder the mother faints death-like, and clings like a clod to the floor;
No wonder the man flies in frenzy, and dashes his way through the door!
He fights his way out through the tempest; he is beaten and baffled and tossed;
He cries, “The train's gang off the Tay brig! lend help here to look for the lost!”
Oh, little to him do they listen, the crowds to the river that flee;
The news, like the shock of an earthquake, has thrilled through the town of Dundee.
Like travelers belated, they're rushing to where the bare station-walls frown;
Suspense twists the blade of their anguish—like maniacs they run up and down.
Out, out, creep two brave, sturdy fellows, o'er danger-strewn buttress and piers;
They can climb 'gainst that blast, for they carry the blood of old Scotch mountaineers.
But they leave it along as they clamber; they mark all their hand-path with red;
Till they come where the torrent leaps bridgeless—a grave dancing over its dead.
A moment they gaze down in horror; then creep from the death-laden tide,
With the news, “There's nae help for our loved ones, save God's mercy for them who have died!”
How sweetly the sunlight can sparkle o'er graves where our best hopes have lain!
How brightly its gold beams can glisten on faces that whiten with pain!
Oh, never more gay were the wavelets, and careless in innocent glee,
And never more sweet did the sunrise shine over the town of Dundee.
But though the town welcomed the morning, and the firth threw its gold lances back,
On the hearts of the grief-stricken people death's cloud rested heavy and black.
And the couple who waited last evening their man-statured son to accost,
Now laid their heads down on the table, and mourned for the boy that was lost.
“'Twas sae sad,” moaned the crushed, aged mother, each word dripping o'er with a tear,
“Sae far he should come for to find us, and then he should perish sae near!
O Robin, my bairn! ye did wander far from us for mony a day,
And when ye ha' come back sae near us, why could na' ye come a' the way?”
“I hae come a' the way,” said a strong voice, and a bearded and sun-beaten face
Smiled on them the first joyous pressure of one long and filial embrace:
“I cam' on last nicht far as Newport; but Maggie, my bride that's to be,
She ran through the storm to the station, to get the first greeting o' me.
I leaped from the carriage to kiss her; she held me sae fast and sae ticht,
The train it ran off and did leave me; I could na' get over the nicht.
I tried for to walk the brig over—my head it was a' in a whirl—
I could na'—ye know the sad reason—I had to go back to my girl!
I hope ye'll tak' kindly to Maggie; she's promised to soon be my wife;
She's a darling wee bit of a lassie, and her fondness it saved me my life.”
How brightly its gold beams can glisten on faces that whiten with pain!
Oh, never more gay were the wavelets, and careless in innocent glee,
And never more sweet did the sunrise shine over the town of Dundee.
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On the hearts of the grief-stricken people death's cloud rested heavy and black.
And the couple who waited last evening their man-statured son to accost,
Now laid their heads down on the table, and mourned for the boy that was lost.
“'Twas sae sad,” moaned the crushed, aged mother, each word dripping o'er with a tear,
“Sae far he should come for to find us, and then he should perish sae near!
O Robin, my bairn! ye did wander far from us for mony a day,
And when ye ha' come back sae near us, why could na' ye come a' the way?”
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Smiled on them the first joyous pressure of one long and filial embrace:
“I cam' on last nicht far as Newport; but Maggie, my bride that's to be,
She ran through the storm to the station, to get the first greeting o' me.
I leaped from the carriage to kiss her; she held me sae fast and sae ticht,
The train it ran off and did leave me; I could na' get over the nicht.
I tried for to walk the brig over—my head it was a' in a whirl—
I could na'—ye know the sad reason—I had to go back to my girl!
I hope ye'll tak' kindly to Maggie; she's promised to soon be my wife;
She's a darling wee bit of a lassie, and her fondness it saved me my life.”
The night and the storm fell together upon the sad town of Dundee,
The half-smothered song of the tempest swept out like a sob to the sea;
The voice of the treacherous storm-king, as mourning for them he had slain;
O cruel and blood-thirsty tempest! your false tears are shed all in vain!
Beneath the dread roof of this ruin your sad victims nestle and creep;
They hear not the voices that call them; if they come, they will come in their sleep.
No word can they tell of their terror, no step of the dark route retrace,
Unless their sad story be written upon the white page of the face.
Perchance that may speak of their anguish when first came the crash of despair;
The long-drawn suspense of the instant they plunged through the shuddering air;
The life-panoramas that flitted swift past them, with duties undone;
The brave fight for life in a battle that strong death already had won;
The half stifled shouting of anguish the aid of high Heaven to implore;
The last patient pang of submission, when effort was ended and o'er.
But, tempest, a bright star in heaven a message of comfort sends back,
And draws our dim glances to skyward, away from thy laurels of black:
Thank God that whatever the darkness that covers his creature's dim sight,
He always vouchsafes some deliverance, throws some one a sweet ray of light;
Thank God that the strength of his goodness from dark depths ascended on high,
And carried the souls of the suffering away to the realms of the sky;
Thank God that his well-tempered mercy came down with the clouds from above,
And saved one from out the destruction, and him by the angel of love.
The half-smothered song of the tempest swept out like a sob to the sea;
The voice of the treacherous storm-king, as mourning for them he had slain;
O cruel and blood-thirsty tempest! your false tears are shed all in vain!
Beneath the dread roof of this ruin your sad victims nestle and creep;
They hear not the voices that call them; if they come, they will come in their sleep.
No word can they tell of their terror, no step of the dark route retrace,
Unless their sad story be written upon the white page of the face.
Perchance that may speak of their anguish when first came the crash of despair;
The long-drawn suspense of the instant they plunged through the shuddering air;
The life-panoramas that flitted swift past them, with duties undone;
The brave fight for life in a battle that strong death already had won;
The half stifled shouting of anguish the aid of high Heaven to implore;
The last patient pang of submission, when effort was ended and o'er.
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And draws our dim glances to skyward, away from thy laurels of black:
Thank God that whatever the darkness that covers his creature's dim sight,
He always vouchsafes some deliverance, throws some one a sweet ray of light;
Thank God that the strength of his goodness from dark depths ascended on high,
And carried the souls of the suffering away to the realms of the sky;
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And saved one from out the destruction, and him by the angel of love.
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