THE WIVES OF BRIXHAM.

The storm, like an assassin,

Went on its secret way,

And struck a hundred boats adrift

To reel about the bay.

They meet, they crash, — God keep the men!

God give a moment's light!

There is nothing but the tumult,
And the tempest, and the night.

The men on shore were anxious,
They grieved for what they knew:
What do you think the women did?
Love taught them what to do!
Outspoke a wife: "We've beds at home,
We'll burn them for a light!
Give us the men and the bare ground!
We want no more to-night."

They took the grandame's blanket,

Who shivered and bade them go;

They took the baby's pillow,

Who could not say them no;

And they heaped a great fire on the pier,
And knew not all the while

If they were heaping a bonfire,
Or only a funeral pile.

And, fed with precious food, the flame
Shone bravely on the black,

Till a cry rang through the people, –

“A boat is coming back!"

73

Staggering dimly through the fog,

They see, and then they doubt;

But, when the first prow strikes the pier,
Cannot you hear them shout?

Then all along the breadth of flame
Dark figures shrieked and ran,
With, "Child, here comes your father!"
Or, "Wife, is this your man ? ""
And faint feet touch the welcome shore,
And stay a little while;

And kisses drop from frozen lips,
Too tired to speak or smile.

So, one by one, they struggled in,
All that the sea would spare:
We will not reckon through our tears
The names that were not there;
But some went home without a bed,
When all the tale was told,

Who were too cold with sorrow
To know the night was cold.

And this is what the men must do,
Who work in wind and foam;
And this is what the women bear,
Who watch for them at home.

So when you see a Brixham boat
Go out to face the gales,

Think of the love that travels

Like light upon her sails!

M. B. S.

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

75

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

POOR lone Hannah

Sitting at the window binding shoes, —

Faded, wrinkled, —

Sitting, stitching in a mournful muse.

Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree.
Spring and winter

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Not a neighbor

Passing nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper :

"Is there from the fishers any news?"
Oh, her heart's adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone!

Night and morning

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah

Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly wooes;
Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all aglow,

And the waves are laughing so!
For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes.
Hannah shudders,

For the wild sou'wester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,
Outward bound, a schooner sped.
Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

'Tis November,

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews.
From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose;

Whispering hoarsely, "Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Twenty winters

Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views.
Twenty seasons :

Never one has brought her any news.

Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea.

Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

LUCY LARCOM.

A GREYPORT LEGEND.

77

A GREYPORT LEGEND.

1797.

HEY ran through the streets of the seaport town,

THE

They peered from the decks of the ships that lay ; The cold sea-fog that came whitening down

Was never so cold or white as they.

"Ho! Starbuck, Pinckney, and Tenterden !
Run for your shallops, gather your men,
Scatter your boats on the lower bay."

Good cause for fear! In the thick mid-day,
The hulk that lay by the rotting pier,
Filled with the children in happy play,
Parted its moorings and drifted clear, —
Drifted clear beyond reach or call,-
Thirteen children they were in all,

All adrift in the lower bay!

-

Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all!
She will not float till the turning tide!"
Said his wife, "My darling will hear my call,
Whether in sea or heaven she bide."
And she lifted a quavering voice and high,
Wild and strange as the sea-bird's cry,

Till they shuddered and wondered at her side.

The fog drove down on each laboring crew,
Veiled each from each, and the sky and shore.
There was not a sound but the breath they drew,
And the lap of water and creak of oar;