University of Virginia Library

A stretch of river broadening to the sea;
Long tracts of marsh and sandy-bottomed shore,
Through which the full tide, in the evening light,
Glistens, broad-mirrored, and with liberal flow,
Laps o'er the marge its lavish liquid gold:
Sunset-enlightened sky, clear with the fires
Of dying day and in the faint far blue,
Gold-glinting spires and rosy-tinted white
Of roofs, where sleeps the little seaside town:
Upon the eager, seaward running flood,
A stately vessel, gay with glistering flags
And brilliant with the snow of stainless sails,
That blossom out along their pine-stem spires,
Rocks in the light breath of the coming wind:
And on the shore three figures, in whose eyes
The grief of parting dims the golden blink
Of sunset and the rosy-purple glow
Of clouds that float upon the western haze.
A woman, clad as women use to be
Who, poor, are yet not needy, to whose lot
Some share of ease has fallen, and two girls,
Her daughters, one fifteen, the other twelve;
All with sad faces turned toward the ship
And eyes that strive to hold her back with looks.
Awhile the wistful sorrow of their gaze
Seems gifted with some strange magnetic force;
For still the light breeze puffs and dies away
And the loose sails flap idly 'gainst the masts.
At last, the faint breaths freshen into wind
And the smooth current ripples to its kiss.
Some white thing flutters from the deck; the sails
Bend slowly to the breezes and the ship
Glides, with the tide-flow, past the line of foam,
That marks the river's boundary, and so
Into the rougher waters of the main.
A little while, their eyes, who watch from shore,
Strained to the utmost, follow, in her course,
The hastening ship, that bears their dearest one
Into the western distance; then the glow
Fades from the track of the departed sun;
The glints of light upon the distant crests
Die slowly and the sunned snow of the sails
Sinks, with the dying day, into the dusk.

Then, back again, with aching hearts, they turned
To where, within the smoke-enshrouded heart
Of the great town they lived, amidst a maze
Of narrow tortuous streets, that wound about
The region of the docks and ran along
The river ramparted with many a wharf.
All day the hum and roar of traffic whirled
About the place and even in the night
The air was full of noise: across the streets
Huge waggons toiled and patient labouring hacks
Tugged mighty burdens up the long steep lanes.
Three rooms they had, poor, but yet not without
Some touch of grace and comfort to conceal
Their poverty. The place was bright and warm
With gorgeous shells and corals, red and gold,
Rose-pink and pearly, that the husband's care
And father's thought had brought as memories
Of cruises in the wondrous southern seas;
And spangled foreign birds, that once had hopped
And chirrupped 'mid the palm and banian boughs,
In the clear air of golden-stranded isles,
Under the blue of rainbow-flowered skies,
With their emblazoned plumage, emerald
And gold and purple, lighted up the place
With an unreal unfamiliar air
Of foreign splendour. Very dear to them,
For whom long use had sanctified its walls
And love had lent its very poverty
A beauty of its own, the dwelling was,—
To them, who never in their lives, perhaps,
Had seen a field of cowslips all in bloom
Nor gathered violets in the early spring;
For love did hallow for them all mean things
And gilded City smoke with hope and peace.
Long had they dwelt there, many quiet years,
The oft-recurring pangs of waiting fear
And doubt as oft forgotten in the bright
Alternate joy of meeting and the rare
Short sudden sweetness of the dear one's stay,
Year after year, with these that were his all.
This time a longer voyage had he gone,
Into the gold of Polynesian seas;
And grave forebodings had made sad the hearts
Of wife and children: for their fearful love,
True-womanly, saw nought but certain ill
In the unknown. They shuddered at the tales
Of fierce sea-monsters, that old sailors told,
And all their yarns of horror and affright
About that false Pacific, whose clear blue
Seethes at the heart with unsuspected storms,
And pictured to themselves their sailor tossed,
Helpless, upon the hungry pitiless waves
Or struggling in the jaws of some foul shark,
Whilst the clear deep ran crimson with his blood.
In vain had he, who had small thought of fear,
Save for his dear ones, striven to divert
Their fears to quiet hope's expectancy,
With tales of all the wonders and delights,
That lay within that coral-hearted main,
And all the golden-fronded palms, that spread
Their waving fans toward the roseate heaven,
And promises of strange and lovely things,
The magic spoils of Nature's fairyland,
From that rich treasury of emerald isles,
He meant to bring with him on his return.
'Twas all in vain, he could not ease their hearts
Of that deep-seated longing, which foretold
Some vague calamity, as summer air
Is big with thunder, though the sky seem clear.
And so, a little while, when he was gone,
They went about their work all listlessly;
But soon the ancient wont came to their aid
And they fell back into the olden groove
Of quiet expectation and resigned.
They did not let confessed inquietude
Disturb the eventless current of their lives,
Spent in hard work, with little time for doubt:
But yet the seedlets of that brooding fear,
Whose vague unrest they even to themselves
Acknowledged not, lay latent in their hearts,
Ready to burst into a deadly flower,
When hap should will it. Onward went the days
And now the time began to draw toward
The ending of their fears. Two years, not more,
(Had he assured them) would have filled their span,
Before the “Kelpie” should again ascend
The river and cast anchor in the docks
And he again should press them to his heart.
The expected day passed by, and then a week,
A month and many weary, weary months;
And still they had no tidings of the ship.
As yet they had no thought of wreck or death;
The thought was far too awful to be thought,
—God could not be so cruel,—till, at last,
Well nigh a year beyond the rightful time,
When he, according to his word, again
Should have set foot within their ready doors,
They read a brief note in some journal's coign,
Which said, the ship, now twelve months overdue,
Had not for long been heard of (Oh, how cold
And bloodless seemed the formal printed words,
That were so fateful to them!) and 'twas feared
She had, with all her crew, gone down at sea;
And this seemed the more probable (it said)
That some, who held like course, had, far from land,
Picked up a board from off a vessel's stern,
That bore, in half-obliterated words,
The name of “Kelpie”. Yet 'twas possible
She had been stranded on some distant isle
Of many, that were known to stud those seas,
Innumerous, and many of the crew,
If not the whole, might still be living there,
Mayhap detained by savages or else
Devoid of means to leave the island shore,
Their boats all shattered by the self-same storm
That might have wrecked the ship. A straw of hope,
To which they clung, as only women cling,
When those they love are hoped for. So they lived,
Still thinking he could not be lost to them
And looking ever for his near return.
The months went by and still no tidings came
And still they watched and longed for him and hoped
A hopeless hope, more anguishful than fear.
Meantime, the money he had left with them,
To fend them from privation and avert
The grim necessity of ceaseless toil
For scanty bread, though hoarded with close care,
Was all expended and the stern, hard times
Exacted labour far beyond their wont.
One after one the little luxuries
And fanciful adornments, that the lost
Had gathered with such loving care for them,
Were bartered for bare food, and naked walls
Joined with wan looks to make the place look drear,
That erst had worn so homely bright an air.
Stern want began to pinch their toiling souls
And harder and yet harder grew the times,
Until unceasing labour scarce could earn
Sufficient food to hold the weary souls
Within the spare starved bodies. Hollow-eyed
And gaunt, mere spectres of their former selves,
They could have been contented, whilst the hope,
That had so long sustained them, stayed with them.
But now four years had passed and every chance
Seemed gone for them; and slowly hope died out
And one great gloom of unillumined pain
Shrouded the bitter struggle of their lives.

One night, as, cowered o'er the scanty fire,
With weary eyes bent on the pitiless work,
They toiled, with hearts from which hard use had chased
All feeling save a horrible dull pain
And (God be thanked) all-blest undying love,
The youngest girl let fall her half-done work
And laying down her yet all-childish head
Upon her mother's bosom, faintly said,
“Mother, forgive me; I can work no more;
My heart is sick with pain.” And so was dead.

Thus had death blotted from their book of life
Its Alpha and Omega, first and last,
Father and youngest child, and there were left
But two poor women, sorrow-struck and wan,
All lonely with each other in the world.
Left by themselves to breast the pitiless world,
Nearer and nearer drew their faithful hearts
And brighter burned their mutual love (half pain),
As harder grew the misery and the toil.
And now the June of the fifth year was come
And vague forebodings hovered in the air
Of coming horrors. From the distant East,
Each mail bore tidings how the Indian shores
Lay prostrate in the grasp of that fell plague,
That had some dozen years before laid waste
All Europe with the hell-wind of its breath:
And as the summer waned, the time grew fierce
With heat scarce known in England and the pest
Flew nearer through the neighbouring continents.
Foul mists began to hover o'er the town,
Significant of coming pestilence,
And weird miasmas in the dead of night
Rose from the river's rank and sweltering flood
And wrapped the sleepers in their fell embrace.
And gradually folk heard of awful deaths,
Unknown to ordinary summer-time;
And men said “Cholera”, with bated breath,
And laid their hands upon each other's lips,
As if they feared the pest would hear its name
And come as if invoked to come. At length,
September came, and with it came the plague.
Into fell life the hidden germs of death
Leapt with an awful swiftness and the air
Was deadly with the poison of their breath.
Folk died like sheep and every workhouse hole
Was crammed to overflowing with the dead.
The sextons could not do their dismal work
Swiftly enough: the dead outstripped the live
And arms that plied the spade grew numb with toil.
Day after day up rose the pitiless sun
And rained down flame on the deserted streets:
Strong men dropped smitten in the open ways
And funerals choked the city's avenues.
All round them died, in hundreds, of the plague,
The gaunt, half-starved poor folk; women and men
And children fell to death the easier prey,
That they could scarce be said to live; and soon
The wave of pestilence swept over them.

One evening, from her work the mother came
Back to the one poor room still left to them,
Where sat the daughter and her scanty meal
Awaited her return, and staggering in,
Fell down upon the bed, with trembling hands
And nerveless limbs. Her eyes were wild and glazed
And all her aspect to her child too well
Revealed the fatal symptons of the plague.
But, when her daughter strove to raise her up
And tend her with the fearlessness of love,
She started up with a despairing strength
And with death written in her flaming eyes,
Conjured the girl to “let her die alone
And save herself. She must not touch her now;
She had the pest;” and strove to fend her off
From nearing her. But she (so strong is love)
Said, “Mother, you are all I have on earth:
For me life is not glad, and without you,
'Twere worthless. Please God, if He bid you die,
I will die with you. Nay, you could not have
The heart to die without me and to leave
Me quite deserted in this dreary world!
We have too long been one in misery
And love, for God to part our love in death.”
So saying, round her mother's thin worn neck
Her arms she threw and drew her burning head
To its old refuge on her faithful breast.
The morning came and found them still so clasped,
Sleeping the fitful sleep of feveredness.
All day they lay, in helpless agony,
Unnoticed and alone; for they who lived
Around them had no aid to waste on them,
Being well nigh as stricken as themselves;
And darkness came and found them sick to death.
The weary hours went by and still they lay
In death-like silence, till the gloom of night
Began to blend into the gray of morn;
And then the daughter turned and feebly cried,
With failing voice, “Mother!” And she who, dumb
With agony, grew stiff in the death-trance,
(O mighty effort of immortal love!)
Lifted her arms, already stark with death,
And strained her daughter closer to her heart.
A little while they lay and then again
The daughter spoke; “Mother, are you asleep?
I feel so weary, yet not now in pain:
I think this must be death; I seem to see
Father at last again. Kiss me once more,
For the last time;” and feebly strove to press
Her pallid lips to those belovéd ones,
Where all her love was centred, and to rouse
The torpid senses to some feeble spark
Of animation. But the mother lay
Moveless and stiff in death and she herself
Already felt the angel of the plague
Draw with chill finger-tips the film of death
Over her eyes. The dawn came creeping up
The eastern sky and gradually the hand
Of friendly death relaxed the pain-strung mouth
Into a smile of peace; the lids dropped down
And the wan features settled into rest.

Suddenly footsteps sounded on the stair;
The door flew open and a sun-bronzed man,
Haggard and toil-worn, burst into the room,
With mingled hope and fear inscribed upon
His eager face. The naked walls first caught
His gaze: where erst he had been wont to see
Comfort and plenty, all too plainly showed
Despair and want. And then his haggard eyes
Fell on the two dead women on the bed,
That lay, yet warm, clasped in each other's arms,
Unseparate in death as in their lives;
And with an awful cry of agony,
He fell upon his knees and hid his face
Against the coverlet. A moment passed,
Dumb with undying pain; and then a sob,
Big with the dead hope of five weary years,
Broke up out of his breast, too fiercely strained
With agony to yield its woe in tears;
And with that one sob burst in twain his heart.
The dawn crept on; and when the neighbours came,
Hearing no stir, as there was wont to be
For early morning toil, to know the cause
(Too well suspecting, in that awful time,
What was the cause) of the unwonted calm,
They found him dead by his belovéd dead,
Whilst blue broke day across the Eastern hills
And the glad sun rained gold upon the earth.