Elizabeth Oakes Smith: Verses about Moon

A MARINER sat on the shrouds one night;
The wind was piping free;
Now bright, now dimmed was the moon-light pale,
And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the whale,
As he floundered in the sea;
The scud was flying athwart the sky,
The gathering winds went whistling by,
And the wave as it towered, then fell in spray,
Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.

The mariner swayed and rocked on the mast,
But the tumult pleased him well;
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast,
And the monsters watched as they hurried past
Or lightly rose and fell;
For their broad, damp fins were under the tide,
And they lashed as they passed the vessel's side,
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim,
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.

Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes
Like an uncurbed steed along;
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant prow the water ploughs,
But the ship is fleet and strong:
The topsails are reefed and the sails are furled,
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood;
But there came no chill to the mariner's blood.

Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease,
And holds him by the shroud;
And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,
And the surging heareth loud.
Was that a face, looking up at him,
With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down? did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.

The mariner looked, and he saw with dread
A face he knew too well;
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the wave was spread.
Was there a tale to tell?
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groaned, as well he need;
For, ever, down as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleamed from the briny tide.

Bethink thee, mariner, well, of the past,—
A voice calls loud for thee:—
There 's a stifled prayer, the first, the last;—
The plunging ship on her beam is cast,—
Oh, where shall thy burial be?
Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly spoken,
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken,
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee,
For thou art alone on the raging sea:

Alone in the dark, alone on the wave,
To buffet the storm alone,
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle and feel there is none to save,—
God shield thee, helpless one!
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past,
The trembling hands on the deep are cast,
The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks—the struggle is o'er.

Down, down where the storm is hushed to sleep,
Where the sea its dirge shall swell,
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep,
And the rose-lipped shell her music keep,
There thou shalt slumber well.
The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side,
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,
As they slowly sunk to the wave below.

A peopled home is the ocean bed;
The mother and child are there;
The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
The babe with its silken hair;
As the water moveth they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play;
And there is each cherished and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.

'Twas night—bright beamed the silver moon,
And all the stars were dim;
The widow heard within the dell
Sweet voices of a hymn,
As loitering winds were made to sound
Her sinless daughter's name;
While to the roof a rare toned-bird
With wondrous music came.

And long it sat upon the cot
And poured its mellow song,
That rose upon the stilly air,
And swelled the vales along.
It was no earthly thing she deemed,
That, in the clear moonlight,
Sat on the lowly cottage roof,
And charmed the ear of night.

The sun is up, the flowerets raise
Their folded leaves from rest;
The bird is singing in the branch
Hard by its dewy nest.
The spider's thread, from twig to twig,
Is glittering in the light,
With dew-drops has the web been hung
Through all the starry night.

Why tarries Eva long in bed,
For she is wont to be
The first to greet the early bird,
The waking bud to see?
Fresh as the dew of rose lipped morn
Her sweet young face was seen,
Early amid the clustering blooms,
And woodbine's tendrilled screen.

Why tarries she in secret bower,
Where lightly to and fro,
The curtain rustles in the air,
And shadows come and go?
Why stoops her mother o'er the couch
With half-suppressed breath,
And lifts the deep-fringed eyelid up?—
That frozen orb is death!

Why raises she the small pale hand,
And holds it to the light?
There is no clear transparent hue
To meet her dizzy sight.
She holds the mirror to her lips
To catch the moistened air:
The widowed mother stands alone
With her dead daughter there!

And yet so placid is the face,
So sweet its lingering smile,
That one might deem the sleep to be
The maiden's playful wile.
No pain the quiet limbs had racked,
No sorrow dimmed the brow,
So tranquil had the life gone forth,
She seemed but slumbering now.

They laid her down beside the brook
Upon the sloping hill,
And that strange bird with its rare note,
Is singing o'er her still.
The sunbeam warmer loves to rest
Upon the heaving mound,
And those unearthly blossoms spring,
Uncultured from the ground.

There Albert Linne, an altered man,
Oft bowed in lowly prayer,
And pondered o'er the mystic words
Which Eva uttered there.
That pure compassion, angel-like,
Which touched her soul when he,
A guilty and heart-stricken man,
Would from her presence flee;

Her sinless lips from earthly love,
So tranquil and so free;
And the low, fervent prayer for him,
She breathed on bended knee.
As Eva's words and spirit sank
More deeply in his heart,
Young Albert Linne went forth to act
The better human part.

Oft in the stillness of the night
Sweet Eva's dove-like eyes,
Beamed through the darkness of his room,
Like stars in dusky skies.
Oft came a tranquil light diffused
The darkness to beguile,
And Albert felt within his heart,
It was but Eva's smile.

Not lost, his Eva, though her form
The elements concealed,
Within the chambers of the soul,
Her meek form stood revealed;
And there he felt her heavenly eye,
Her downy arms caressed,
And like a living presence there,
She stole into his breast.

Oh not alone did Albert strive;
For, blending with his own,
In every voice of prayer or praise.
Was heard young Eva's tone.
He felt her lips upon his brow,
Her angel form beside;
And nestling nearest to his heart,
Was she—THE SPIRIT BRIDE.

The sinless Child, with mission high,
Awhile to Earth was given,
To show us that our world should be
The vestibule of Heaven.
Did we but in the holy light
Of truth and goodness rise,
We might communion hold with God
And spirits from the skies.