 | [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson |  |
415
SAIL ROCK, LAKE SUPERIOR.
From the far Sault of Sainte-Marie he wanders,
On, ever on, the white foam in his track,
By night, by day, sails fleet before the wind,
Until he sees the beach of Fond-du-Lac:
Yet finds not there the rest he seeks with yearning:
Frown all the cliffs—and he must wander forth
Over the waves again, by south-winds driven,
Past the dark Palisades into the north.
On, ever on, the white foam in his track,
By night, by day, sails fleet before the wind,
Until he sees the beach of Fond-du-Lac:
Yet finds not there the rest he seeks with yearning:
Frown all the cliffs—and he must wander forth
Over the waves again, by south-winds driven,
Past the dark Palisades into the north.
There stands the haunted arch of Spirit River,
There, in the storm, is seen the misty shape
Of Manitou, who guards the great Superior,
Rising above the heights of Thunder Cape;
And seeing him, the guilty one, approaching,
The voices of the surf rise in a roar
Below the porphyry cliffs, sounding a summons,
To call the spirits to the lonely shore.
There, in the storm, is seen the misty shape
Of Manitou, who guards the great Superior,
Rising above the heights of Thunder Cape;
And seeing him, the guilty one, approaching,
The voices of the surf rise in a roar
Below the porphyry cliffs, sounding a summons,
To call the spirits to the lonely shore.
Down, down, they troop through the ravines of iron,
Over the rocks where virgin silver shines,
Up, up, they roll the surf, a seething barrier.
And marshal on the beach their shadow-lines;
He cries, he weeps, he prays with arms extended:
“Have mercy upon me, a soul unblest—
I come not for your stores of shining treasure,
I only beg—I only pray for rest.
Over the rocks where virgin silver shines,
Up, up, they roll the surf, a seething barrier.
And marshal on the beach their shadow-lines;
He cries, he weeps, he prays with arms extended:
“Have mercy upon me, a soul unblest—
I come not for your stores of shining treasure,
I only beg—I only pray for rest.
Aged am I, and worn with countless journeys.
Over the lake forever must I stray;
In the whole south I cannot find a landing,
Keewenaw's copper arm thrusts me away;
I sail, and sail, yet never find a harbour—
Stern is the east, and sterner is the west,
Oh, grant me but one foothold on the north shore.
So can I die at last and be at rest!”
Over the lake forever must I stray;
In the whole south I cannot find a landing,
Keewenaw's copper arm thrusts me away;
I sail, and sail, yet never find a harbour—
Stern is the east, and sterner is the west,
Oh, grant me but one foothold on the north shore.
So can I die at last and be at rest!”
But not! They drive him off with jeers and shouting,
Before their ghostly glee the cursed one quails;
Forth from the silver rocks of haunted northland,
Not daring to look back, away he sails;
And sails, and sails, yet never finds a landing
Though fairest coasts and isles he passes by;
And hopes and hopes, yet never finds a foothold
On any shore where he can kneel and die.
Before their ghostly glee the cursed one quails;
Forth from the silver rocks of haunted northland,
Not daring to look back, away he sails;
And sails, and sails, yet never finds a landing
Though fairest coasts and isles he passes by;
And hopes and hopes, yet never finds a foothold
On any shore where he can kneel and die.
416
Weary and worn, through many a red-man's lifetime,
Over the lake he wanders on and on,
Till up through Huron, with red banners flying,
Come white men from the rising of the sun;
The Sault they name from Sainte-Marie with blessing,
The lake lies hushed before their holy bell,
As, landing on the shore of Rocky Pictures,
They raise the white cross in la grande Chapelle,
Over the lake he wanders on and on,
Till up through Huron, with red banners flying,
Come white men from the rising of the sun;
The Sault they name from Sainte-Marie with blessing,
The lake lies hushed before their holy bell,
As, landing on the shore of Rocky Pictures,
They raise the white cross in la grande Chapelle,
As the first white man's hymn on great Superior
Sounds from the rocky church not made with hands,
A phantom-boat sails in from the still offing,
And at its bow an aged figure stands;
The worn cords strain so full, the sails are swelling,
The old mast bends and quivers like a bow.
Yet calm the windless sky shines blue above them.
And calm the windless waves shine blue below.
Sounds from the rocky church not made with hands,
A phantom-boat sails in from the still offing,
And at its bow an aged figure stands;
The worn cords strain so full, the sails are swelling,
The old mast bends and quivers like a bow.
Yet calm the windless sky shines blue above them.
And calm the windless waves shine blue below.
The boat glides in, still faster, faster sailing,
Like lightning darting o'er the shrinking miles,
And, as he hears the chanting in the chapel,
For the first time in years the lone one smiles;
At last, at last, his feet are on the dear shore,
The curse is gone, his eyes to heaven rise,
At last, at last, his mother earth receives him.
At last, at last, with thankful heart he dies.
Like lightning darting o'er the shrinking miles,
And, as he hears the chanting in the chapel,
For the first time in years the lone one smiles;
At last, at last, his feet are on the dear shore,
The curse is gone, his eyes to heaven rise,
At last, at last, his mother earth receives him.
At last, at last, with thankful heart he dies.
The poor worn body, old with many lifetimes,
They find there lying on the golden sands,
But, lifting it with wonder and with reverence,
It crumbles into dust beneath their hands.
The poor worn boat, grown old with endless voyages,
Floats up the coast, unguided and alone,
And, stranding 'neath the cliff, its mission over,
By the Great Spirit's hand is turned to stone.
They find there lying on the golden sands,
But, lifting it with wonder and with reverence,
It crumbles into dust beneath their hands.
The poor worn boat, grown old with endless voyages,
Floats up the coast, unguided and alone,
And, stranding 'neath the cliff, its mission over,
By the Great Spirit's hand is turned to stone.
You see it there among the Rocky Pictures,
The mainsail and the jib, just as they were;
We never passed it with a song or laughter
In the gay days when we were voyageurs;
The best among us doffed our caps in silence,
The gayest of us never dared to mock
At the strange tale that came down from our fathers,
The pictured legend of the old Sail-Rock.
The mainsail and the jib, just as they were;
We never passed it with a song or laughter
In the gay days when we were voyageurs;
The best among us doffed our caps in silence,
The gayest of us never dared to mock
At the strange tale that came down from our fathers,
The pictured legend of the old Sail-Rock.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson | |