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166

XIII
THE LOST ‘EURYDICE’

24 March, 1878
[_]

The mother of a young Officer seen at the helm when the frigate capsized, was waiting his return at Southsea.

‘Lady, she is round the Needles: now Saint Catherine's Cape they sight:
Now her head is set north-eastward; 'fore the beam the Foreland light.
‘Look, we see the light from Southsea,’—and beyond the fancy goes,
Where e'en now the fated keel is gliding under dark Dunnose:
Swanlike gliding, as some cloud that, dark below, the storm-wind's hue,
Towers into silver summits, sailing o'er the tranquil blue.
O the change!—and in one hour!—when, swanlike, on the harbour's breast,
Plumage furl'd and voyage over, safe the gallant ship will rest!
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—All the movement of the haven spread beneath her eyes in vain,
At a window watch'd the Lady, gazing o'er the sunlit main;
Thinking, from the Foreland light-ship they perchance e'en now might see,
See the noble ship,—My Ship!—for brings she not my boy to me?
Drifted from the waves the splendour; from the sky died out the blue:
Yet the Lady saw not; deep beyond herself her sight withdrew.
Sunshine glow'd within her bosom; happy music in her ears;
Love in glory painting all the beauty of his youthful years.
Heart 'twixt brave and tender balanced; manly child, and childlike youth:
Bright as heaven, as ocean open; true to true love, true to truth.
‘Fit for earth, and fit for heav'n,’ she thinks, ‘whate'er his destined lot;’
—He is there already, Mother! Mother!—and thou know'st it not!
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Thunderbolts of icy storm-wind in its panting bosom piled,
Sudden, towering angry-black, a cloudy wall climbs wide and wild.
Like a squadron at the signal, forth the mad tornado flies,
Robed in blinding folds of snow, together mixing seas and skies.
—From the window turn, Lady! toward the light-ship look no more;
Happy that thou canst not see the darkening headland, surf-white shore.
Thirty minutes since they watch'd her;—stately vision, jocund crew:—
All beyond from outward witness hidden, lost to mortal view.
Voice was none, nor cry of terror;—as when snowdrifts whelm the dell,
Smitten, slain, at once, and buried, where the mad tornado fell.
Right upon her side she dipp'd, then turn'd and went within the main:
Only at her helm, the last, the gallant boy was seen;—in vain!
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—Weep not for thy children, England! though the wild waves hold their prey:—
England owns a thousand thousand, loyal to the death as they.
Ah! the sun once more, uncaring, glitters o'er the hapless dead,
Golden shafts through twilight emerald piercing to their oozy bed.
There, ring'd round with foam-fleck'd waters, flapping sails and shatter'd poles
Lift themselves, a desolate beacon, o'er three hundred English souls.
There the sun may blaze uncaring, there the ripples kiss and play,
Chalk-bright cliffs and grassy headland smiling to the smiling bay.
But within the Lady's soul the music and the glow are gone;—
This alone is left to cheer thee, Mother! Mother!—this alone:
Though the heart's desire on earth thy longing eyes ne'er meet again,
True to God and England, at the helm, thou seest him;—not in vain!
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