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HAVELOCK THE GULL.
PART FIRST.
1
The brown spring tide came frothing up the strand,Under the scourge of a gale. I watched the fleet
Remorseless waves eat up the shrinking sand,
When something fluttered seaward from my feet.
2
Twas a young gull—a wild and startled thing;By some deep instinct of man's cruelty
Driven to seek, with rash half-plumèd wing,
Refuge and kinship in the unquiet sea.
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3
A valorous heart beat in that bosom white:Breaker on breaker cleaving, as he sought
The freedom of the deep, a gallant fight
That baby sea-bird with old Ocean fought.
4
In vain! His oary feet what boots him ply?Short voyage might he make for all his pain;
For when his hard-won victory seemed most nigh
The bursting surge would hurl him back again.
5
Poor heap of sand-smircht plumes, with dauntless eye,What wildness of the sea was in the shriek
With which it rose, for dearest liberty
To fight my capturing hand with wings and beak!
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6
I took my foundling home, beguiled each moodOf fierce defiant fear, or sullen gloom,
Till from our fingers he would snatch the food,
And flap his wings, and preen his draggled plume.
7
We called him Havelock, from the noble Dane,“Saved from the sea,” my wee girl said, “like him;”
For she had spelt the story out with pain
That very morn: “And, father, you're his Grim.”
8
Then rested, feasted, warmed, we bore him back,And left him there in ease with liberty,
Snug in the bents, above the shingle black,
To sleep, and dream of his beloved sea.
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PART SECOND.
1
Next morn we rose, the child to save our scrapsFor Havelock's breakfast, chattering: “He'll grow tame,
Because he'll see we love him; and perhaps
He'll soon come flying when we call his name.
2
“And then, when we are leaving in the train,Oh! wouldn't it be nice if he should fly
In from the sea, and peck the window-pane,
And scream? That's how a bird would say ‘Good-bye!’”
3
I went to seek him o'er the gusty beach,And marked the strow of upcast things the surge
Had marvellously sifted each from each,
Sand here, stones there, drift on the weedy verge.
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4
But when at length I came to Havelock's lairI found a fragment of his last night's meal,
And one poor feather; but no Havelock there;
Nor sight nor sign to hint his woe or weal;
5
Save a fresh tracklet in the drifted sandBelow the bents, lost in the gravel soon,
Which told how, boldly making for the strand,
He had slipt and fluttered down the tiny dune.
6
That morn the tide, roaring perpetually,Nigher and nigher, roused him from his bed:
The creature heard the calling of the sea,
And sought its ancient bosom without dread.
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7
Where was he now? I hoped him safely steeredThrough the wild surf, his feathery kin to seek;
And yet I feared the sea, and more I feared
The thousand foes that war against the weak.
8
And so I wandered on in dreamy mood,And picked up shells, and mused of other things,
Till, on a spit the churning surge bestrewed
With flickering foam,—was that the flap of wings?
9
Yes, it was he; the worrying waves awhileHad left him spent in the spent foam. Alack!
He had fought the breakers all a weary mile,
And there he lay, flung baffled on his back.
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10
Ah, my poor Havelock! stranded just alive,Too late I came, too late to succour thee!
How bravely the world's beaten things may strive!
What waifs abide the sifting of the sea!
11
I took him up—too weak, poor bird, to peckThe hands that held him; and with piteous stare
He seemed to gaze for light; with stiffening neck
Updrawn into his breast, to strain for air.
12
A few great gasps with his wide-gaping bill,And then he gasped no more; his gallant head
Drooped, and for aye his dauntless heart stood still,
The damp chill-feathered thing I bore was dead.
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13
We dug a grave next morning by the shore,With wooden spade we dug it mournfully,
And there we laid our Havelock, and once more
Left him to sleep by his beloved sea.
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