That those whom G.o.d"s high grace there saved from ill, Those also left His martyrs in the bay, Though not by siege, though not in battle, still Full well had earned their pay.
ELIHU.
BY ALICE CAREY.
"O sailor, tell me, tell me true, Is my little lad--my Elihu-- A-sailing in your ship?"
The sailor"s eyes were dimmed with dew.
"Your little lad? Your Elihu?"
He said with trembling lip; "What little lad--what ship?"
What little lad?--as if there could be Another such a one as he!
"What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea The moment I put him off my knee.
It was just the other day The _Grey Swan_ sailed away."
The other day? The sailor"s eyes Stood wide open with surprise.
"The other day?--the _Swan?_"
His heart began in his throat to rise.
"Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on."
"And so your lad is gone!"
"Gone with the _Swan_." "And did she stand With her anchor clutching hold of the sand For a month, and never stir?"
"Why, to be sure! I"ve seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady"s hand, The wild sea kissing her-- A sight to remember, sir."
"But, my good mother, do you know, All this was twenty years ago?
I stood on the _Grey Swan"s_ deck, And to that lad I saw you throw-- Taking it off, as it might be so-- The kerchief from your neck;"
"Ay, and he"ll bring it back."
"And did the little lawless lad, That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the _Grey Swan"s_ crew?"
"Lawless! the man is going mad; The best boy ever mother had; Be sure, he sailed with the crew-- What would you have him do?"
"And he has never written line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign, To say he was alive?"
"Hold--if "twas wrong, the wrong is mine; Besides, he may be in the brine; And could he write from the grave?
Tut, man! what would you have?"
"Gone twenty years! a long, long cruise; "Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; But if the lad still live, And come back home, think you you can Forgive him?" "Miserable man!
You"re mad as the sea; you rave-- What have I to forgive?"
The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild: "My G.o.d!--my Father!--is it true?
My little lad--my Elihu?
And is it?--is it?--is it you?
My blessed boy--my child-- My dead--my living child!"
THE LAST OF THE "EURYDICE."
BY SIR NOEL PATON.
(Sunday, March 24, 1878.)
The training ship _Eurydice_-- As tight a craft, I ween, As ever bore brave men who loved Their country and their queen-- Built when a ship, sir, _was_ a ship, And not a steam-machine.
Six months or more she had been out, Cruising the Indian Sea; And now, with all her canvas bent-- A fresh breeze blowing free-- Up Channel in her pride she came, The brave _Eurydice_.
On Sat.u.r.day it was we saw The English cliffs appear, And fore and aft from man and boy Uprang one mighty cheer; While many a rough-and-ready hand Dashed off the gathering tear.
We saw the heads of Dorset rise Fair in the Sabbath sun.
We marked each hamlet gleaming white, The church spires one by one.
We thought we heard the church bells ring To hail our voyage done!
"Only an hour from Spithead, lads: Only an hour from home!"
So sang the captain"s cheery voice As we spurned the ebbing foam; And each young sea-dog"s heart sang back, "Only an hour from home!"
No warning ripple crisped the wave, To tell of danger nigh; Nor looming rack, nor driving scud; From out a smiling sky, With sound as of the tramp of doom, The squall broke suddenly,
A hurricane of wind and snow From off the Shanklin sh.o.r.e.
It caught us in its blinding whirl One instant, and no more;-- For ere we dreamt of trouble near, All earthly hope was o"er.
No time to shorten sail--no time To change the vessel"s course; The storm had caught her crowded masts With swift, resistless force.
Only one shrill, despairing cry Rose o"er the tumult hoa.r.s.e,
And broadside the great ship went down Amid the swirling foam; And with her nigh four hundred men Went down in sight of home (Fletcher and I alone were saved) Only an hour from home!
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.
BY H.W. LONGFELLOW.
(September 13, 1852.)
A mist was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun.
It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips.
Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover, Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away.
Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite.
And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning salutations, That all was well.