The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Vol. 2. Bowles William Lisle

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      'Tis Mary! and that book with many a tear

      Is wet, which, with dim fingers, long and cold,

      He sees her to the glimmering moon unfold.

      And now her hand is laid upon his heart.

      Gasping, he wakes – with a convulsive start,

      He gazes round! Moonlight is on the tide —

      The passing keel is scarcely heard to glide, —

      See where the spectre goes! with frenzied look

      He shrieks again, Oh! Mary, shut the book!

      Now, to the ocean's verge the phantom flies, —

      And, hark! far off, the lessening laughter dies.

      Years passed away, – at night, or evening close,

      Faint, and more faint, the accusing spectre rose.

      Restored from toil and perils of the main,

      Now William treads his native place again.

      Near the Land's-end, upon the rudest shore,

      Where, from the west, Atlantic surges roar,

      He lived, a lonely stranger, sad, but mild;

      All marked his sadness, chiefly when he smiled;

      Some competence he gained, by years of toil:

      So, in a cottage, on his native soil,

      He dwelt, remote from crowds, nor told his tale

      To human ear: he saw the white clouds sail

      Oft o'er the bay,68 when suns of summer shone,

      Yet still he wandered, muttering and alone.

      At night, when, like the tumult of the tide,

      Sinking to sad repose, all trouble died,

      The book of God was on his pillow laid,

      He wept upon it, and in secret prayed.

      He had no friend on earth, save one blue jay,69

      Which, from the Mississippi, far away,

      O'er the Atlantic, to his native land

      He brought; – and this poor bird fed from his hand.

      In the great world there was not one beside

      For whom he cared, since his own mother died.

      Yet manly strength was his, for twenty-years

      Weighed light upon his frame, though passed in tears;

      His age not forty-two, and in his face

      Of care more than of age appeared the trace.

      Mary was scarce remembered; by degrees,

      The sights and sounds of life began to please.

      Ruth was a widow, who, in youth, had known

      Griefs of the heart, and losses of her own.

      She, patient, mild, compassionate, and kind,

      First woke to human sympathies his mind.

      He looked affectionately, when her child

      Caressed his bird, and then he stood and smiled.

      This widow and her child, almost unknown,

      Lived in a cottage that adjoined his own.

      Her husband was a fisher, one whose life

      Is fraught with terror to an anxious wife:

      Night after night exposed upon the main;

      Returning, tired with toil, or drenched with rain;

      His gains, uncertain as his life; he knows

      No stated hours of labour and repose.

      When others to a cheerful home retire,

      And his wife sits before the evening fire,

      He, rocking in the dark, tempestuous night,

      Haply is thinking of that social light.

      Ruth's husband left the bay, the wind and rain

      Came down, the tempest swept the howling main;

      The boat sank in the storm, and he was found,

      Below the rocks of the dark Lizard, drowned.

      Seven years had passed, and after evening prayer,

      To William's cottage Ruth would oft repair,

      And with her little son would sometimes stay,

      Listening to tales of regions far away.

      The wondering boy loved of those scenes to hear —

      Of battles – of the roving buccaneer —

      Of the wild hunters, in the forest-glen,

      And fires, and dances of the savage men.

      So William spoke of perils he had passed, —

      Of voices heard amid the roaring blast;

      Of those who, lonely and of hope bereft,

      Upon some melancholy rock are left,

      Who mark, despairing, at the close of day,

      Perhaps, some far-off vessel sail away.

      He spoke with pity of the land of slaves —

      And of the phantom-ship that rides the waves.70

      It comes! it comes! A melancholy light

      Gleams from the prow upon the storm of night.

      'Tis here! 'tis there! In vain the billows roll;

      It steers right on, but not a living soul

      Is there to guide its voyage through the dark,

      Or spread the sails of that mysterious bark!

      He spoke of vast sea-serpents, how they float

      For many a rood, or near some hurrying boat

      Lift up their tall neck, with a hissing sound,

      And questing turn their bloodshot eye-balls round.

      He spoke of sea-maids, on the desert rocks,

      Who in the sun comb their green dripping locks,

      While, heard at distance, in the parting ray,

      Beyond the furthest promontory's bay,

      Aërial music swells and dies away!

      One night they longer stayed the tale to hear,

      And Ruth that night "beguiled him of a tear,

      Whene'er he told of the distressful stroke

      Which his youth suffered." Then, she pitying spoke;

      And from that night a softer feeling grew,

      As calmer prospects rose within his view.

      And why not, ere the long night of the dead,

      The slow descent of life together tread?

      The day is fixed; William no more shall roam,

      William and Ruth shall have one heart – one home:

      The world shut out, both shall together pray:

      Both wait the evening of life's changeful day:

      She shall his anguish soothe, when he is wild,

      And he shall be a father to her child.

      Fair rose the morn – the summer air how bland!