Classic Poem

THE CRYING BOG .

The sun sinks slowly to the west,
The night comes veiled in fleecy mist;
It rolls across the ocean's breast,
Each swelling wave is lightly kissed,
It pauses at the sunlit land,
Then softly covers sea and strand.

Beside the Pettaquamscut shore,
Beneath the shadow of the hill,
A traveler passes, and once more
Looks toward the mist so white and still.
With hurried steps his way he makes
Among the rushes and the brakes.

His foot is on the oozy marsh,
He backward starts in wild affright, —
Above his head he hears the harsh,
Strange cry of hawks: down comes the night;
The whispering rushes bode of ill;
Down comes the night, soft, pale, and chill.

Sudden he hears from out the dark
A baby's cry. Poor little child,
What does iThere? Again, and hark,
The cry is clear, and strong, and wild;
Some frightened child is surely near,
A child who cries a cry of fear.

He plunges onward through the reeds,
Relief and succor fain would bring —
The fog is thick, but some one needs;
He strives to find the suffering thing.
Though beast or bird, his manly breast
Would give it shelter, warmth, and rest.

Lo, on the bare and humid ground
A woman crouches, dark of face;
An Indian woman: all unbound,
Her black hair falls in maiden grace;
Her ghastly looks are wan and wild,
Beside her lies a new-born child.

The baby cries its plaintive cry,
The mother answers with a groan;
Recoils in terror, then draws nigh,
And lifts the child with sobbing moan.
She drags her wearied limbs with pain,
The baby cries its cry again.

She feebly hastens toward the shore,
With horror scans her baby's face.
Then hastens faster than before —
The child is of an alien race.
They reach the marsh, the water's nigh,
The baby cries its plaintive cry.

The traveler shudders, strives to run,
His spell-bound feet his will refuse.
This dreadful deed must not be done,
His muscles tense he cannot use.
He strives to give a warning cry —
He utters it, a voiceless sigh.

Alone he sees the dreadful-deed:
Far in the marsh the child is thrown;
Caught in strange spell, he cannot plead,
And now the mother stands alone
In solitude, despair, and shame,
In wretchedness without a name.

Men call the place the Crying Bog,
And hasten by its tangled reeds;
When night comes veiled in fleecy fog
The ghostly child for pity pleads —
The child whose voice can never die,
Whose only life is in its cry.