 | Sursum Corda |  |
69
A DAY OF STORM.
'Twas a day of storm, for the giant Atlantic, rolling in pride,
Drawn by the full moon, driven by the fierce wind, tide upon tide,
Huddled the heaving Channel. A hundred anxious eyes
Were watching a breach new broken, when suddenly some one cries,
“A boat coming in!”—and rounding the pier-head that hid her before,
There, sure enough, was a stranger smack, head straight for the shore.
How will she land where each wave is a mountain? Too late for how!
Run up a flag there to show her the right place! She must land now.
Drawn by the full moon, driven by the fierce wind, tide upon tide,
Huddled the heaving Channel. A hundred anxious eyes
Were watching a breach new broken, when suddenly some one cries,
“A boat coming in!”—and rounding the pier-head that hid her before,
There, sure enough, was a stranger smack, head straight for the shore.
70
Run up a flag there to show her the right place! She must land now.
She is close:—with a rush on the galloping wave-top, a stand
As the wave goes back from beneath her, her nose just touches the land;
And then (as rude hands, sacking a city, greedy of prey,
Toss in some littered chamber a child's toy lightly away),
A great wave rose from behind, and, lifting her, towered and broke,
And flung her headlong down on the hard beach, close to the folk.
Crash! . . . but 'tis only her bowsprit snapped, she is saved somehow;
And a cheer broke out, for a hundred hands have hold of her now.
And they say 'twas her bowsprit saved her, or she must have gone over then;
Her bowsprit it was that saved her; and little they think, those men,
Of one weak woman that prayed, as she watched them tempest-driven.
They say 'twas her bowsprit saved her—one says 'twas that prayer, and Heaven.
As the wave goes back from beneath her, her nose just touches the land;
And then (as rude hands, sacking a city, greedy of prey,
Toss in some littered chamber a child's toy lightly away),
A great wave rose from behind, and, lifting her, towered and broke,
And flung her headlong down on the hard beach, close to the folk.
Crash! . . . but 'tis only her bowsprit snapped, she is saved somehow;
And a cheer broke out, for a hundred hands have hold of her now.
71
Her bowsprit it was that saved her; and little they think, those men,
Of one weak woman that prayed, as she watched them tempest-driven.
They say 'twas her bowsprit saved her—one says 'twas that prayer, and Heaven.
| Sursum Corda | |