O'er the intermediate land
'Twixt the plains of rich completeness,
And the realms of budding sweetness,
Winter! from thy crystal throne,
With a keenness all thy own
Dartest thou, through gleaming air,
O'er the glorious barren glare
Of thy sunlit wildernesses,
Thine undazzled level glances,
Where thy minions' silver tresses
Stream among their icy lances;
While thy universal breathing,
Frozen to a radiant swathing
For the trees, their bareness hides,
And upon their sunward sides
Shines and flushes rosily
To the chill pink morning sky.
Skilful artists thou employest,
And in chastest beauty joyest--
Forms most delicate, pure, and clear,
Frost-caught starbeams fallen sheer
In the night, and woven here
In jewel-fretted tapestries.
But what magic melodies,
As in the bord'ring realms are throbbing,
Hast thou, Winter?--Liquid sobbing
Brooks, and brawling waterfalls,
Whose responsive-voiced calls
Clothe with harmony the hills,
Gurgling meadow-threading rills,
Lakelets' lisping wavelets lapping
Round a flock of wild ducks napping,
And the rapturous-noted wooings,
And the molten-throated cooings,
Of the amorous multitudes
Flashing through the dusky woods,
When a veering wind hath blown
A glare of sudden daylight down?--
Naught of these!--And fewer notes
Hath the wind alone that floats
Over naked trees and snows;
Half its minstrelsy it owes
To its orchestra of leaves.
Ay! weak the meshes music weaves
For thy snared soul's delight,
'Less, when thou dost lie at night
'Neath the star-sown heavens bright,
To thy sin-unchoked ears
Some dim harmonies may pierce
From the high-consulting spheres:
'Less the silent sunrise sing
Like a vibrant silver string
When its prison'd splendors first
O'er the crusted snow-fields burst.
But thy days the silence keep,
Save for grosbeaks' feeble cheep,
Or for snow-birds' busy twitter
When thy breath is very bitter.
So my spirit often acheth
For the melodies it lacketh
'Neath thy sway, or cannot hear
For its mortal-cloaked ear.
And full thirstily it longeth
For the beauty that belongeth
To the Autumn's ripe fulfilling;--
Heaped orchard-baskets spilling
'Neath the laughter-shaken trees;
Fields of buckwheat full of bees,
Girt with ancient groves of fir
Shod with berried juniper;
Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves;
Heavy-headed nodding sheaves;
Clumps of luscious blackberries;
Purple-cluster'd traceries
Of the cottage climbing-vines;
Scarlet-fruited eglantines;
Maple forests all aflame
When thy sharp-tongued legates came.
Ruler with an iron hand
O'er an intermediate land!
Glad am I thy realm is border'd
By the plains more richly order'd,--
Stock'd with sweeter-glowing forms,--
Where the prison'd brightness warms
In lush crimsons through the leaves,
And a gorgeous legend weaves.
CIX. ABIGAIL BECKER.
(_Off Long Point Island, Lake Erie, November 24th, 1854._)
AMANDA T. JONES.
The wind, the wind where Erie plunged,
Blew, blew nor'-east from land to land;
The wandering schooner dipp'd and lunged,--
Long Point was close at hand.
Long Point--a swampy island-slant,
Where, busy in their grassy homes,
Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt,
And musk-rats build their domes;
Where gulls and eagles rest at need,
Where either side, by lake or sound,
Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed,
And mallard ducks abound.
The lowering night shut out the sight:
Careen'd the vessel, pitch'd and veer'd,--
Raved, raved the wind with main and might;
The sunken reef she near'd.
She pounded over, lurch'd, and sank;
Between two sand-bars settling fast,
Her leaky hull the waters drank,
And she had sail'd her last.
Into the rigging, quick as thought,
Captain and mate and sailors sprung,
Clamber'd for life, some vantage caught,
And there all night they swung.
And it was cold--oh, it was cold!
The pinching cold was like a vise:
Spoondrift flew freezing,--fold on fold
It coated them with ice.
Now when the dawn began to break,
Light up the sand-path drench'd and brown,
To fill her bucket from the lake,
Came Mother Becker down.
From where her cabin crown'd the bank
Came Abigail Becker tall and strong:
She dipp'd, and lo! a broken plank
Came rocking close along!
She pois'd her glass with anxious ken:
The schooner's top she spied from far,
And there she counted seven men
That clung to mast and spar.
And oh, the gale! the rout and roar!
The blinding drift, the mounting wave,
A good half-mile from wreck to shore,
With seven men to save!
Sped Mother Becker: "Children! wake!
A ship's gone down! they're needing me!
Your father's off on shore; the lake
Is just a raging sea!
"Get wood, cook fish, make ready all."
She snatch'd her stores, she fled with haste,
In cotton gown and tatter'd shawl,
Barefoot across the waste,
Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands,
And nearer, nearer, full in view,
Went shouting through her hollow'd hands:
"Courage! we'll get you through!"
Ran to and fro, made cheery signs,
Her bonfire lighted, steeped her tea,
Brought drift-wood, watch'd Canadian lines
Her husband's boat to see.
Cold, cold it was--oh, it was cold!
The bitter cold made watching vain:
With ice the channel laboring roll'd,--
No skiff could stand the strain.
On all that isle, from outer swell
To strait between the landings shut,
Was never place where man might dwell,
Save trapper Becker's hut.
And it was twelve and one and two,
And it was three o'clock and more.
She call'd: "Come on! there's nought to do,
But leap and swim ashore!"
Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear:
She waded in the shallow sea;
She waved her hands, made signals clear,
"Swim! swim, and trust to me!"
"My men," the captain cried, "I'll try:
The woman's judgment may be right;
For, swim or sink, seven men must die
If here we swing to-night."
Far out he mark'd the gathering surge;
Across the bar he watch'd it pour,
Let go, and on its topmost verge
Came riding in to shore.
It struck the breaker's foamy track,--
Majestic wave on wave uphurl'd,
Went grandly toppling, tumbling back,
As loath to flood the world.
There blindly whirling, shorn of strength,
The captain drifted, sure to drown;
Dragg'd seaward half a cable's length,
Like sinking lead went down.
Ah, well for him that on the strand
Had Mother Becker waited long!
And well for him her grasping hand
And grappling arm were strong!
And well for him that wind and sun,
And daily toil for scanty gains,
Had made such daring blood to run
Within such generous veins!
For what to do but plunge and swim?
Out on the sinking billow cast,
She toil'd, she dived, she groped for him,
She found and clutch'd him fast.
She climb'd the reef, she brought him up,
She laid him gasping on the sands;
Built high the fire and fill'd the cup,--
Stood up and waved her hands!
Oh, life is dear! The mate leap'd in.
"I know," the captain said, "right well,
Not twice can any woman win
A soul from yonder hell.
"I'll start and meet him in the wave."
"Keep back!" she bade: "what strength have you?
And I shall have you both to save,--
Must work to pull you through!"
But out he went. Up shallow sweeps
Raced the long white-caps, comb on comb:
The wind, the wind that lash'd the deeps,
Far, far it blew the foam.
The frozen foam went scudding by,--
Before the wind, a seething throng,
The waves, the waves came towering high,
They flung the mate along.
The waves came towering high and white.
They burst in clouds of flying spray:
There mate and captain sank from sight,
And, clinching, roll'd away.
Oh, Mother Becker, seas are dread,
Their treacherous paths are deep and blind!
But widows twain shall mourn their dead
If thou art slow to find.
She sought them near, she sought them far,
Three fathoms down she gripp'd them tight;
With both together up the bar
She stagger'd into sight.
Beside the fire her burdens fell:
She paus'd the cheering draught to pour,
Then waved her hands: "All's well! all's well!
Come on! swim! swim ashore!"
Sure, life is dear, and men are brave:
They came,--they dropp'd from mast and spar;
And who but she could breast the wave,
And dive beyond the bar?
Dark grew the sky from east to west,
And darker, darker grew the world:
Each man from off the breaker's crest
To gloomier deeps was hurl'd.
And still the gale went shrieking on,
And still the wrecking fury grew;
And still the woman, worn and wan,
Those gates of Death went through,--
As Christ were walking on the waves,
And heavenly radiance shone about,--
All fearless trod that gulf of graves
And bore the sailors out.
Down came the night, but far and bright,
Despite the wind and flying foam,
The bonfire flamed to give them light
To trapper Becker's home.
Oh, safety after wreck is sweet!
And sweet is rest in hut or hall:
One story Life and Death repeat,--
God's mercy over all.
* * * * *
Next day men heard, put out from shore,
Cross'd channel-ice, burst in to find
Seven gallant fellows sick and sore,
A tender nurse and kind;
Shook hands, wept, laugh'd, were crazy-glad;
Cried: "Never yet, on land or sea,
Poor dying, drowning sailors had
A better friend than she.
"Billows may tumble, winds may roar,
Strong hands the wreck'd from Death may snatch:
But never, never, nevermore
This deed shall mortal match!"
Dear Mother Becker dropp'd her head,
She blush'd as girls when lovers woo:
"I have not done a thing," she said,
"More than I ought to do."
THE END.
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| Transcriber's notes: |
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| Non-ascii diacritical marks represented |
| as follows: |
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| |
| [=a] a macron [)a] a breve |
| [=e] e macron [)e] e breve |
| [=i] i macron [)i] i breve |
| [=o] o macron [)o] o breve |
| [=u] u macron [)u] u breve |
| |
| [a:] two dots under a |
| [.a] dot over a |
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