That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again.
No word to any man he utters,
Abed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
Abed or up, by night or day,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!
NG the dwellers in the silent fields
natural heart is touched, and public way
crowded street resound with ballad strains,
red by ONE whose very name bespeaks
r divine, exalting human love;
m, since her birth on bleak Northumbria's coast, vn unto few, but prized as far as known,
gle Act endears to high and low
ugh the whole land;-to Manhood, moved in spite
Of the world's freezing cares; to generous Youth;
To Infancy, that lisps her praise; to Age
Whose eye reflects it, glistening through a tear
Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame
Awaits her now; but, verily, good deeds
Do no imperishable record find,
Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers may live
A theme for angels, when they celebrate
The high-souled virtues which forgetful earth
Has witnessed.
O that winds and waves could speak Of things which their united power called forth From the pure depths of her humanity!
A Maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call,
Firm and unflinching as the Lighthouse reared
On the Island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place;
Or like the invincible Rock itself, that braves,
Age after age, the hostile elements,
As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell.
All night the storm had raged, nor ceased, nor paused,
When, as day broke, the Maid, through misty air,
Espies far off a Wreck, amid the surf,
Beating on one of those disastrous isles,—
Half of a Vessel, half,
Had vanished, swallowed up with all that there
Had for the cominon safety striven in vain,
Or thither thronged for refuge. With quick g.arce Daughter and Sire through optic-glass discern,
Clinging about the remnant of this Ship,
Creatures-how precious in the Maiden's sight! For whom, belike, the old Man grieves still more Than for their fellow-sufferers ingulfed
Where every parting agony is hushed,
And hope and fear mix not in further strife.
"But courage, Father! let us out to sea,—
A few may yet be saved." The Daughter's words,
Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith,
Dispel the Father's doubts: nor do they lack
The noble-minded Mother's helping hand
To launch the boat; and with her blessing cheered,
And inwardly sustained by silent prayer,
Together they put forth, Father and Child!
Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they go,-
Rivals in effort; and, alike intent
Here to elude and there surmount, they watch
The billows lengthening, mutually crossed
And shattered, and regathering their might;
As if the tumult by the Almighty's will
Were, in the conscious sea, roused and prolonged,
That woman's fortitude-so tried, so proved-
May brighten more and more!
They stem the current of that perilous gorge,
Their arms still strengthening with the strengthening
Though danger, as the Wreck is neared, becomes
More imminent. Not unseen do they approach;
And rapture, with varieties of fear
Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames
Of those who, in that dauntless energy,
Foretaste deliverance; but the least perturbed
Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives
That of the pair,-tossed on the waves to bring
Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life-
One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister,
Or, be the Visitant other than she seems,
A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven,
In woman's shape. But why prolong the tale,
Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts
Armed to repel them? Every hazard faced
And difficulty mastered, with resolve
That no one breathing should be left to perish,
This last remainder of the crew are all
Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep
Are safely borne, landed upon the beach,
And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged
Within the sheltering Lighthouse.-Shout, ye Waves!
Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and Winds,
Exult in thi deliverance wrought through faith
In Him whose Providence your rage hath served!
Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert join!
And would that some immortal Voice-a Voice
Fitly attuned to all that gratitude
Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid lins
Though young so wise, though meek so resolute,-
Might carry to the clouds and to the stars,
Yea, to celestial Choirs, GRACE DARLING'S name!
HOPES, what are they?-Beads of morning
Strung on slender blades of grass;
Or a spider's web adorning
In a strait and treacherous pass.
What are fears but voices airy,
Whispering harm where harm is not,
And deluding the unwary
Till the fatal bolt is shot?
What is glory?-in the socket
See how dying tapers fare!
What is pride?—a whizzing rocket
That would emulate a star.
What is friendship?-do not trust her,
Nor the vows which she has made;
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.
|