 | Sonnets by the Rev. Charles Turner [i.e. Charles Tennyson] |  |
9
THE MOSELLE BOATMAN AND HIS DAUGHTER.
Not high nor full enough to show things clear,The half moon hung above the mountain-lines—
But, glancing on the waters, kindled there
A lamp of gold beneath the unseen vines;
The night was fair, but, as our port we neared,
We sighed to lose the boatman and his mate,
Between whose patient faces we had sate,
The old man rowing, while his daughter steered;
‘Father,’ she oft would say in accents mild,
Whene'er she asked advice, or craved reply
To some brief question, while, with loving eye,
He smiled and nodded to his wistful child,
Over his close-joined hands and labouring oar—
'Twas sad to think we ne'er might see them more!
10
The oar, to keep her father's strength unworn
For midday labour; but the sight compelled
Our pity, and the aid of pity born—
For at each stroke, whose ripples reached the land,
She rose up bodily, with toil and pain,
And often paused, and dipped her little hand,
To cool her brow, yet did she not complain;
Full oft, in day-dreams of that sweet Moselle,
I seek my gentle Gretchen, and persuade
My questing memory that all goes well
At Alf, by Bertrich, with that village-maid,
Who, when the task her slender force outweighed,
Rose from her seat, to make her rowing tell.
| Sonnets by the Rev. Charles Turner [i.e. Charles Tennyson] | |