The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 66

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, A darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph, the Rover, walked his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess; But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float; Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat; And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound; The bubbles rose, and burst around.

Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock Will not bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph, the Rover, sailed away, He scoured the seas for many a day; And now, grown rich with plundered store, He steers his course for Scotland's sh.o.r.e.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky They cannot see the Sun on high; The wind hath blown a gale all day; At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand; So dark it is they see no land.

Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising Moon."

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?

For yonder, methinks, should be the sh.o.r.e."

"Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell."

They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a s.h.i.+vering shock,-- "O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock."

Sir Ralph, the Rover, tore his hair; He cursed himself in his despair.

The waves rush in on every side; The s.h.i.+p is sinking beneath the tide.

But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound he seemed to hear,-- A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, The Devil below was ringing his knell.

Robert Southey [1774-1843]

THE SEA

Through the night, through the night, In the saddest unrest, Wrapped in white, all in white, With her babe on her breast, Walks the mother so pale, Staring out on the gale, Through the night!

Through the night, through the night, Where the sea lifts the wreck, Land in sight, close in sight, On the surf-flooded deck, Stands the father so brave, Driving on to his grave Through the night!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

THE SANDS OF DEE

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee!"

The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee!

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

THE THREE FISHERS

Three fishers went sailing away to the West, Away to the West as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.

But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the s.h.i.+ning sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep; And good-by to the bar and its moaning.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

BALLAD

In the summer even, While yet the dew was h.o.a.r, I went plucking purple pansies, Till my love should come to sh.o.r.e.

The fis.h.i.+ng-lights their dances Were keeping out at sea, And come, I sung, my true love!

Come hasten home to me!

But the sea, it fell a-moaning, And the white gulls rocked thereon; And the young moon dropped from heaven, And the lights hid one by one.

All silently their glances Slipped down the cruel sea, And wait! cried the night and wind and storm,-- Wait, till I come to thee!

Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921]

THE NORTHERN STAR A Tynemouth s.h.i.+p

The Northern Star Sailed over the bar Bound to the Baltic Sea; In the morning gray She stretched away:-- 'Twas a weary day to me!

For many an hour In sleet and shower By the lighthouse rock I stray; And watch till dark For the winged bark Of him that is far away.

The castle's bound I wander round, Amidst the gra.s.sy graves: But all I hear Is the north wind drear, And all I see are the waves.

The Northern Star Is set afar!