Classic Poem

Lord , with how small a thing
Thou canst prop up the heart against the grave!
A little glimmering
Is all we crave!
The lustre of a love
That hath no being,
The pale point of a little star above
Flashing and fleeing,
Contents our seeing.
The house that never will be built; the gold
That never will be told;
The task we leave undone when we are cold;
The dear face that returns not, but is lying,
Lick'd by the leopard, in an Indian cave;
The coming rest that cometh not, till, sighing,
We turn our tremulous gaze upon the grave.
And, Lord, how should we dare
Thither in peace to fall,
But for a feeble glimmering even there —
Falsest, some sigh, of all?
We are as children in Thy hands indeed,
And Thou hast easy comfort for our need, —
The shining of a lamp, the tinkling of a bell.
Content us well.

And even when Thou bringest to our eyes
A thing long-sought, to show its worthlessness,
Anon we see another thing arise,
And we are comforted in our distress;
And, waiting on, we watch it glittering,
Till in its turn it seems a sorry thing;
And even as we weep
Another rises, and we smile again!
Till, wearied out with watching on in vain,
We fall to sleep.

And oft one little light that looks divine
Is all some strong Soul seeks on mortal ground;
There are no more to shine
When that one thing is found.
If it be worthless, then what shall suffice?
The lean hand grips a speck that was a spark,
The heart is turned to ice,
And all the world is dark.
Hard are Thy ways when that one thing is sought,
Found, touch'd, and proven nought.
Far off it is a mighty magic, strong
To lead a life along.
But, lo! it shooteth thitherward, and now
Droppeth, a rayless stone, upon the sod. —
The world is lost: perchance not even Thou
Survivest it, Lord God!

In poverty, in pain,
For weary years and long,
One faith, one fear, had comforted Meg Blane,
Yea, made her brave and strong;
A faith so faint it seemed not faith at all,
Rather a trouble and a dreamy fear, —
A hearkening for a voice, for a footfall,
She never hoped in sober heart to hear;
This had been all her cheer!
Yet with this balm
Her Soul might have slept calm
For many another year.
In terror and in desolation, she
Had been sustained,
And never felt abandoned utterly
While that remained.
Lord, in how small and poor a space can hide
The motives of our patience and our pride, —
The clue unto the fortunate man's distress,
The secret of the hero's fearlessness!
What had sustained this Woman on the sea
When strong men turned to flee?
Not courage, not despair,
Not pride, not household care,
Not faith in Thee!
Nought but a hungry instinct blind and dim —
A fond pathetic pain:
A dreamy wish to gaze again on him
She never wholly hoped to see again!

Not all at once, — not in an hour, a day
Did the strong Woman feel her force depart,
Or know how utterly had passed away
The strength of her sad heart.
It was not Love she missed, for Love was dead,
And surely had been dead long ere she knew;
She did not miss the man's face when it fled,
As passionate women do.
She saw him walk into the world again,
And had no pain;
She shook him by the hand, and watched him go,
And thought it better so.
She turned to her hard task-work as of old,
Tending her bearded child with love tenfold,
Hoisted the sails and plied the oar,
Went wandering out from shore,
And for a little space
Wore an unruffled face,
Though wind and water helped her heart no more.
But, mark: she knelt less often on her knees,
For, labour as she might,
By day or night,
She could not toil enough to give her ease.
And presently her tongue, with sharper chimes,
Chided at times;
And she who had endured such sharp distress
Grew peevish, pain'd at her own peevishness;
And though she did not weep,
Her features grew disfigur'd, dark, and dead,
And in the night, when bitterest mourners sleep,
She feverishly tossed upon her bed.

Slowly the trouble grew, and soon she found
Less pleasure in the fierce yet friendly Sea;
The wind and water had a wearier sound,
The moon and stars were sick as corpse-lights be;
Then more and more strange voices filled her ear,
And ghostly feet came near,
And strange fire blew her eyelids down, and then
Dead women and dead men
Dripping with phosphor, rose, and ere she wist
Went by in a cold mist;
Nor left her strengthen'd in her heart and bold,
As they had done of old;
But ever after they had stolen away
She had no heart to pray:
Bitter and dull and cold,
Her Soul crawl'd back into the common day.

Out of the East by night
Drew the dark drifting cloud;
The air was hushed with snow-flakes wavering white,
But the seas below were loud;
And out upon the reef the rapid light
Rose from a shipwrecked bark
Into the dark!
Pale stood the fishers, while the wind wail'd by,
Till suddenly they started with one cry,
And forth into the foam the black boat flew,
And fearless to their places leapt the crew.
Then one called out, " Meg Blane! "
But Meg stood by, and trembled and was dumb,
Till, smit unto the heart by sudden pain,
Into her hair she thrust her fingers numb,
And fell upon the sands,
Nor answer'd while the wondering fishers called,
But tore the slippery seaweed with her hands,
And screamed, and was appalled.

For, lo! the Woman's spiritual strength
Snapt like a thread at length,
And tears, ev'n such as suffering women cry,
Fell from her eyes anon;
And she knew well, although she knew not why ,
The charm she had against the deep was gone!
And after that dark hour,
She was the shadow of a strong Soul dead,
All terrible things of power
Turned into things of dread,
And all the peace of all the world had fled.
Then only in still weather did she dare
To seek her bread on Ocean, as of old,
And oft in tempest time her shelf was bare,
Her hearth all black and cold;
Then very bitterly, with heart gone wild,
She clung about her child,
And hated all the earth beneath the skies,
Because she saw the hunger in his eyes.
For on his mother's strength the witless wight
Had leant for guide and light,
And food had ever come into his hand,
And he had known no thought of suffering;
Yea, all his life and breath on sea and land
Had been an easy thing.
And now there was a change in his sole friend
He could not comprehend.
Yet slowly to the shade of her distress
His nature shaped itself in gentleness!
And when he found her weeping, he too wept,
And, if she laughed, laughed out in company;
Nay, often to the fisher-huts he crept,
And begged her bread, and brought it tenderly,
Holding it to her mouth, and till she ate
Touching no piece, although he hungered sore.
And these things were a solace to her fate,
But wrung her heart the more.

Thus to the bitter dolour of her days
In witless mimicry he shaped his ways!
They fared but seldom now upon the Sea,
But wandered 'mid the marshes hand in hand,
Hunting for faggots on the inland lea,
Or picking dulse for food upon the strand.
Something had made the world more sad and strange,
But easily he changid with the change.
For in the very trick of woe he clad
His features, and was sad since she was sad,
Yea, leant his chin upon his hands like her,
Looking at vacancy; and when the Deep
Was troublous, and she started up from sleep,
He too awoke, with fearful heart astir;
And still, the more her bitter tears she shed
Upon his neck, marking that mimic-woe,
The more in blind deep love he fashionid
His grief to hers, and was contented so.

But as a tree inclineth weak and bare
Under an unseen weight of wintry air,
Beneath her load the weary Woman bent,
And, stooping double, waver'd as she went;
And the days snow'd their snows upon her head
As they went by,
And ere a year had fled
She felt that she must die.

Then like a thing whom very witlessness
Maketh indifferent, she lingered on,
Not caring to abide with her distress,
Not caring to be gone;
But gazing with a dull and darkening eye,
And seeing Dreams pass by.
Not speculating whither she would go,
But feeling there was nought she cared to know,
And melting even as snow.
Save when the man's hand slipped into her own,
And flutter'd fondly there,
And she would feel her life again, and groan,
" O God ! when I am gone, how will he fare?"
And for a little time, for Angus' sake,
Her hopeless heart would ache,
And all life's stir and anguish once again
Would swoon across her brain.

" O bairn, when I am dead,
How shall ye keep frae harm?
What hand will gie ye bread?
What fire will keep ye warm?
How shall ye dwell on earth awa' frae me?"
" O Mither, dinna dee!"

" O bairn, by nigh or day
I hear nae sounds ava",
But voices of winds that blaw,
And the voices of ghaists that say
" Come awa! come awa! "
The Lord that made the Wind, and made the Sea,
Is sore on my son and me,
And I melt in His breath like snaw,"
" O Mither, dinna dee!
" O bairn, it is but closing up the een,
And lying down never to rise again,
Many a strong man's sleeping hae I seen, —
There is nae pain!
I'm weary, weary, and I scarce ken why;
My summer has gone by,
And sweet were sleep, but for the sake o' thee." —
" O Mither, dinna dee!"

When summer scents and sounds were on the Sea,
And all night long the silvern surge plash'd cool,
Outside the hut she sat upon a stool,
And with thin fingers fashion'd carefully,
While Angus leant his head against her knee,
A long white dress of wool.
" O Mither," cried the man, " what make ye there?"
" A blanket for our bed!"
" O Mither, it is like the shroud folk wear
When they are drown'd and dead!"
And Meg said nought, but kissed him on the lips,
And looked with dull eye seaward, where, the moon
Blacken'd the white sails of the passing ships,
Into the Land where she was going soon.

And in the reaping-time she lay abed,
And by her side the dress unfinishid,
And with dull eyes that knew not even her child
She gazed at vacancy and sometimes smiled;
And ever her fingers work'd, for in her thought
Stitching and stitching, still the dress she wrought;
And then a beldame old, with blear-eyed face,
For C HRIST and Charity came to the place,
And stilly sewed the woollen shroud herself,
And set the salt and candle on a shelf.
And like a dumb thing crouching moveless there,
Gripping the fingers wan,
Marking the face with wild and wondering stare,
And whining beast-like, watch'd the witless man.
Then like a light upon a headland set,
In winds that come from far-off waters blowing,
The faint light glimmered — fainter — fainter yet!
But suddenly it brighten'd, at its going;
And Meg sat up, and, lo! her features wore
The stately sweetness they had known of yore;
And delicate lines were round her mouth, mild rest
Was in her eyes, though they were waxing dim;
And when the man crept close unto her breast,
She brighten'd kissing him.
And it was clear
She had heard tidings it was sweet to hear,
And had no longer any care or fear.
" I gang, my bairn, and thou wilt come to me!"
" O Mither, dinna dee!"
But as he spake she dropt upon the bed,
And darken'd, while the breath came thick and fleet:
" O Jessie, see they mind my Bairn!" she said,
And quivered, — and was sleeping at God's Feet.

When on her breast the plate of salt was laid,
And the corse-candle burned with sick blue light.
The man crouch'd, fascinated and afraid,
Beside her, moaning through the night;
And answered not the women who stole near,
And would not see nor hear;
And when a day and night had come and gone,
Ate at the crusts they brought him, gazing on;
And when they took her out upon a bier,
He followed quietly without a tear;
And when on the hard wood fell dust and stone,
He murmur'd a thin answer to the sound,
And in the end he sat, with a dull moan,
Upon the new-made mound.

Last, as a dog that mourns a master dead,
The man did haunt that grave in dull dumb pain;
Creeping away to beg a little bread,
Then stealing back again;
And only knaves and churls refused to give
The gift of bread or meal that he might live —
Till, pale and piteous-eyed,
He moan'd beneath a load too hard to bear.
" Mither!" he cried, —
And crawled into the Dark, to seek her there .