A Sea-Side Sketch

Lov'st thou not, Alice, with the early tideTo see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast,And stretch his sail towards the ocean wide,--Like God's own beadsman going forth to castHis net into the deep, which doth provideEnormous bounties, hidden in its vastBosom like Charity's, for all who seekAnd take its gracious boon thankful and meek?

The sea is bright with morning,--but the darkSeems still to linger on his broad black sail,For it is early hoisted, like a markFor the low sun to shoot at with his paleAnd level beams: All round the shadowy barkThe green wave glimmers, and the gentle galeSwells in her canvas, till the waters showThe keel's new speed, and whiten at the bow.

Then look abaft--(for thou canst understandThat phrase)--and there he sitteth at the stern,Grasping the tiller in his broad brown hand,The hardy Fisherman. Thou may'st discernTen fathoms off the wrinkles in the tann'dAnd honest countenance that he will turnTo look upon us, with a quiet gaze--As we are passing on our several ways.

So, some ten days ago, on such a morn,The Mary, like a seamew, sought her spoilAmongst the finny race: 'twas when the cornWoo'd the sharp sickle, and the golden toilSummon'd all rustic hands to fill the hornOf Ceres to the brim, that brave turmoilWas at the prime, and Woodgate went to reapHis harvest too, upon the broad blue deep.

His mast was up, his anchor heaved aboard,His mainsail stretching in the first gray gleamsOf morning, for the wind. Ben's eye was storedWith fishes--fishes swam in all his dreams,And all the goodly east seem'd but a hoardOf silvery fishes, that in shoals and streamsGroped into the deep dusk that fill'd the sky,For him to catch in meshes of his eye.

For Ben had the true sailor's sanguine heart,And saw the future with a boy's brave thought,No doubts, nor faint misgivings had a partIn his bright visions--ay, before he caughtHis fish, he sold them in the scaly mart,And summ'd the net proceeds. This should have broughtDespair upon him when his hopes were foil'd,But though one crop was marr'd, again he toil'd;

And sow'd his seed afresh.--Many foul blightsPerish'd his hard-won gains--yet he had plann'dNo schemes of too extravagant delights--No goodly houses on the Goodwin sand--But a small humble home, and loving nights,Such as his honest heart and earnest handMight fairly purchase. Were these hopes too airy?Such as they were, they rested on thee, Mary.

She was the prize of many a toilsome year,And hardwon wages, on the perilous sea--Of savings ever since the shipboy's tearWas shed for home, that lay beyond the lee;--She was purveyor for his other dearMary, and for the infant yet to beFruit of their married loves. These made him doteUpon the homely beauties of his boat,

Whose pitch-black hull roll'd darkly on the wave,No gayer than one single stripe of blueCould make her swarthy sides. She seem'd a slave,A negro among boats--that only knewHardship and rugged toil--no pennons braveFlaunted upon the mast--but oft a fewDark dripping jackets flutter'd to the air,Ensigns of hardihood and toilsome care.

And when she ventured for the deep, she spreadA tawny sail against the sunbright sky,Dark as a cloud that journeys overhead--But then those tawny wings were stretch'd to flyAcross the wide sea desert for the breadOf babes and mothers--many an anxious eyeDwelt on her course, and many a fervent pray'rInvoked the Heavens to protect and spare.

Where is she now? The secrets of the deepAre dark and hidden from the human ken;Only the sea-bird saw the surges sweepOver the bark of the devoted Ben,--Meanwhile a widow sobs and orphans weep,And sighs are heard from weatherbeaten men,Dark sunburnt men, uncouth and rude and hairy,While loungers idly ask, "Where is the Mary?"