Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
In Swanage Bay
By Dinah Maria Mulock Craik (1826–1887)“’T
Just such another morn,
The fishermen were on the beach,
The reapers in the corn;
My tale is true, young gentlemen,
As sure as you were born.
The fond old boatman cried
Unto the sullen, angry lads,
Who vain obedience tried;
“Mind what your father says to you,
And don’t go out this tide.
Smooth as a pond, you ’d say,
And white gulls flying, and the crafts
Down Channel making way;
And Isle of Wight, all glittering bright,
Seen clear from Swanage Bay.
Just as to-day you see;
This was, I think, the very stone
Where sat Dick, Dolly, and me;
She was our little sister, sirs,
A small child, just turned three.
Though a big lad and bold,
He ’d carry her like any nurse,
Almost from birth, I ’m told;
For mother sickened soon, and died,
When Doll was eight months old.
Her name the ‘Tricksy Jane,’
A queer old tub laid up ashore,
But we could see her plain;
To see her and not haul her up
Cost us a deal of pain.
Father will never know,
He ’s busy in his wheat up there,
And cannot see us go:
These landsmen are such cowards, if
A puff of wind does blow.
Who knows best, Dad or me,
Whether a craft ’s seaworthy or not?—
Dolly, wilt go to sea?’
And Dolly laughed, and hugged him tight,
As pleased as she could be.
What he did, sure I ’d do:
And many a sail in ‘Tricksy Jane’
We ’d had when she was new.
Father was always sharp; and what
He said, he meant it too.
The bay looked smooth as glass;
Our Dick could manage any boat,
As neat as ever was;
And Dolly crowed, ‘Me go to sea!’
The jolly little lass!
My jacket for a sail;
Just round ‘Old Harry and his Wife,’—
Those rocks there, within hail,—
And we came back.—D’ ye want to hear
The end o’ the old man’s tale?
But then a breeze upsprung;
Dick shouted, ‘Hoy! down sail!’ and pulled
With all his might among
The white sea-horses that upreared
So terrible and strong.
But I could hear Dick’s breath
Coming and going, as he told
Dolly to creep beneath
His jacket, and not hold him so:
We rowed for life or death.
We could see father stand
Upon the little jetty here,
His sickle in his hand,—
The houses white, the yellow fields,
The safe and pleasant land.
Had only said to me,
‘We ’re all right now, old lad!’ when up
A wave rolled,—drenched us three,—
One lurch,—and then I felt the chill
And roar of blinding sea.
You see, I ’m safe and sound;
I have been wrecked four times since then,
Seen queer sights, I ’ll be bound:
I think folks sleep beneath the deep
As calm as under ground.”
I saw him rise and cling
Unto the gunwale of the boat,—
Floating keel up,—and sing
Out loud, ‘Where ’s Doll?’—I hear him yet,
As clear as anything.
For she dropped like a stone
Down through the deep sea,—and it closed:
The little thing was gone.
‘Where ’s Doll?’ three times,—then Dick loosed hold,
And left me there alone.
“It ’s five and forty year since then,”
Muttered the boatman gray,
And drew his rough hand o’er his eyes,
And stared across the bay;
“Just five and forty year!” and not
Another word did say.
As they about him stand;—
“Poor Doll! she floated back next tide
With seaweed in her hand.
She ’s buried o’er that hill you see,
In a churchyard on land.
Our Dick at judgment day.”—
The boatman fell to mending nets,
The boys ran off to play;
And the sun shone and the waves danced
In quiet Swanage Bay.