Peaked Rock
S EPTEMBER night, with struggling moon,
And mist that shifts, and sinks, and whirls,
And darkness coming all too soon,
And tender ferns, which sharp frost curls;
And phantom shape inclosed in fog —
A woman at the Crying Bog!
She hears the cry; she kneels, she cries
Before her cry the voice is dumb,
She spreads her arms, again she tries,
She prays the answering voice to come;
But silence falls on all around,
There is no voice, no faintest sound.
She beats her breast with hollow blows,
Then hurries from the dreadful place,
Her black hair round her wildly flows
And covers all her weeping face;
The fog in pity shuts her in,
And hides her from her mortal sin.
On, on she speeds, o'er bog and field
With giant boulders thickly set,
She slips and falls, but will not yield,
She hastens on, in fog and wet;
The baby's cry is in her ears,
It fills her with a thousand fears.
At last she wins the ocean's shore —
A great expanse of dusky gray
In motion with a moaning roar
And dashing on the rocks its spray.
Oh, welcome sound, its sobbing moan
Drowns out the baby's piercing tone.
It is so vast, so great, so strong,
Beneath its fleecy cloud of mist,
How restful is its sobbing song
To ears which ever, as they list,
For years have heard beneath the fog
The baby of the Crying Bog.
She creeps down to the water's edge —
How soft it breaks upon the rocks,
And gently covers all the ledge
With foam as soft as maiden's locks;
It spreads a bed of softest down,
White, cool, and fair, all care to drown.
How white, how soft! With spell-bound gaze
The woman stands; there is no sound.
How soft, how white! For many days
She 's wandered and no rest has found.
A look of peace comes in her face,
That gives her back her maiden grace.
And then, upon the foamy bed,
A sudden space of blackness comes.
An instant only: overhead
The moon looks out; her gaze benumbs —
The white wave slowly creeping on —
An instant more, all trace is gone.
But lo, up from the water rose
A giant rock, and stood upright;
The angry waves beat it with blows,
And on it wasted all their might;
But there it stood in wind and wave,
To mark that lonely woman's grave.
The Peaked Rock, they called it then:
Long stood it there, for many a year;
None saw it rise, and none knew when
The giant rock would disappear.
It went at last; and some will say
A soul was purged from sin that day.
And mist that shifts, and sinks, and whirls,
And darkness coming all too soon,
And tender ferns, which sharp frost curls;
And phantom shape inclosed in fog —
A woman at the Crying Bog!
She hears the cry; she kneels, she cries
Before her cry the voice is dumb,
She spreads her arms, again she tries,
She prays the answering voice to come;
But silence falls on all around,
There is no voice, no faintest sound.
She beats her breast with hollow blows,
Then hurries from the dreadful place,
Her black hair round her wildly flows
And covers all her weeping face;
The fog in pity shuts her in,
And hides her from her mortal sin.
On, on she speeds, o'er bog and field
With giant boulders thickly set,
She slips and falls, but will not yield,
She hastens on, in fog and wet;
The baby's cry is in her ears,
It fills her with a thousand fears.
At last she wins the ocean's shore —
A great expanse of dusky gray
In motion with a moaning roar
And dashing on the rocks its spray.
Oh, welcome sound, its sobbing moan
Drowns out the baby's piercing tone.
It is so vast, so great, so strong,
Beneath its fleecy cloud of mist,
How restful is its sobbing song
To ears which ever, as they list,
For years have heard beneath the fog
The baby of the Crying Bog.
She creeps down to the water's edge —
How soft it breaks upon the rocks,
And gently covers all the ledge
With foam as soft as maiden's locks;
It spreads a bed of softest down,
White, cool, and fair, all care to drown.
How white, how soft! With spell-bound gaze
The woman stands; there is no sound.
How soft, how white! For many days
She 's wandered and no rest has found.
A look of peace comes in her face,
That gives her back her maiden grace.
And then, upon the foamy bed,
A sudden space of blackness comes.
An instant only: overhead
The moon looks out; her gaze benumbs —
The white wave slowly creeping on —
An instant more, all trace is gone.
But lo, up from the water rose
A giant rock, and stood upright;
The angry waves beat it with blows,
And on it wasted all their might;
But there it stood in wind and wave,
To mark that lonely woman's grave.
The Peaked Rock, they called it then:
Long stood it there, for many a year;
None saw it rise, and none knew when
The giant rock would disappear.
It went at last; and some will say
A soul was purged from sin that day.
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