The Sisters' Tragedy, with Other Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic. Aldrich Thomas Bailey

        The wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,

           And the white caps flecked the sea;

        "An' I would to God," the skipper groaned,

           "I had not my boy with me!"

        Snug in the stern-sheets, little John

           Laughed as the scud swept by;

        But the skipper's sunburnt cheek grew wan

           As he watched the wicked sky.

        "Would he were at his mother's side!"

           And the skipper's eyes were dim.

        "Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,

           What would become of him!

        "For me—my muscles are as steel,

           For me let hap what may;

        I might make shift upon the keel

           Until the break o' day.

        "But he, he is so weak and small,

           So young, scarce learned to stand—

        O pitying Father of us all,

           I trust him in Thy hand!

        "For Thou, who markest from on high

           A sparrow's fall—each one!—

        Surely, O Lord, thou'lt have an eye

           On Alec Yeaton's son!"

        Then, helm hard-port; right straight he sailed

           Towards the headland light:

        The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,

           And black, black fell the night.

        Then burst a storm to make one quail

           Though housed from winds and waves—

        They who could tell about that gale

           Must rise from watery graves!

        Sudden it came, as sudden went;

           Ere half the night was sped,

        The winds were hushed, the waves were spent,

           And the stars shone overhead.

        Now, as the morning mist grew thin,

           The folk on Gloucester shore

        Saw a little figure floating in

           Secure, on a broken oar!

        Up rose the cry, "A wreck! a wreck!

           Pull, mates, and waste no breath!"—

        They knew it, though 'twas but a speck

           Upon the edge of death!

        Long did they marvel in the town

           At God his strange decree,

        That let the stalwart skipper drown

           And the little child go free!

        . . . Room in your heart for him, O Mother Earth,

        Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair,

        And sang your praise in verses manifold

        And delicate, with here and there a line

        From end to end in blossom like a bough

        The May breathes on, so rich it was. Some thought

        The workmanship more costly than the thing

        Moulded or carved, as in those ornaments

        Found at Mycaene. And yet Nature's self

        Works in this wise; upon a blade of grass,

        Or what small note she lends the woodland thrush,

        Lavishing endless patience. He was born

        Artist, not artisan, which some few saw

        And many dreamed not. As he wrote no odes

        When Croesus wedded or Maecenas died,

        And gave no breath to civic feasts and shows,

        He missed the glare that gilds more facile men—

        A twilight poet, groping quite alone,

        Belated, in a sphere where every nest

        Is emptied of its music and its wings.

        Not great his gift; yet we can poorly spare

        Even his slight perfection in an age