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38
DROWNED IN THE TROPICS.
The Mother's Questions.
Drowned, say you? Tell me, tell me, how she fares,My drowned one? Has she met the finny shoal?
And rolled into that glancing march of theirs
Her attitudes of death, with no control
Of living will? Perchance, her feeble form
Falters about wild headlands in the dark,
Where no expectant mother's voice bids ‘Hark!
'Tis our own Mary!’ Or the tropic storm,
With its fierce lightning rends her lonely face;
Or waterspouts, with writhing motion, suck
At her dear relics; prey-birds bless their luck
To find her; or the shark and sea-dog trace
From far my fair-eyed fondling—cruel chase
After a helpless prey, already struck!
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