Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Ballads. II. An Old Mans StoryMary Howitt (17991888)
T
And by the fire sate he;
“And now,” he said, “to you I’ll tell
A dismal thing, which once befell
Upon the Southern Sea.
Since, from the river Plate,
A young man, in a home-bound ship,
I sailed as second mate.
And built for stormy seas;
A lovely thing on the wave was she,
With her canvas set so gallantly
Before a steady breeze.
She went before the gale;
Nor all that time we slackened speed,
Turned helm, or shifted sail.
With gold from the Spanish Main,
And the treasure-hoards of a Portuguese
Returning home again.
His face was yellow and lean;
In the golden lands of Mexico
A miner he had been.
And ’mid his gold he lay,
’Mid iron chests bound round with brass,
And he watched them night and day.
His step was heavy and slow;
And all men deemed that an evil life
He had led in Mexico.
As we went smoothly on,
It chanced, in the silent second watch,
As I sate on the deck alone,
That I heard from ’mong those iron chests
A sound like a dying groan.
The captain stood by me;
He bore a body in his arms,
And dropped it in the sea.
With a heavy splashing sound;
I saw the captain’s bloody hands
As quickly he turned round.
He drew in his breath when me he saw,
Like one whom the sudden withering awe
Of a spectre doth astound:
And the stare of his wild eye,
As he turned in hurried haste away,
Yet had no power to fly;
He was chained to the deck by his heavy guilt,
And the blood that was not dry.
That old man in his sleep.
The curse of blood will come from him
Ten thousand fathoms deep.
For Heaven his groans hath heard.’
The captain’s white lips slowly moved,
And yet he spoke no word,
As if his eyes to shade;
But the blood that was wet did freeze his soul,
And he shrieked like one afraid.
The wind dropped; and a spell
Was on the ship, was on the sea;
And we lay for weeks, how wearily!
Where the old man’s body fell.
That horrid deed of sin;
For I saw the hand of God at work,
And punishment begin.
And the El-Dorado hoard,
They all surmised he had walked in dreams,
And fallen overboard.
That dreadful thing did know,
How he lay in his sin, a murdered man,
A thousand fathoms low.
Came on, and lagging sped;
And the heavy waves of the sleeping sea
Were dark, like molten lead.
And burning was the sky,
And stifling was each breath we drew;
The air was hot and dry.
Hung round us night and day;
Nor dared I look into the sea,
Where the old man’s body lay.
And bolted fast the door;
The seamen, they walked up and down,
And wished the calm was o’er.
A fair child, seven years old,
With a merry face that all men loved,
And a spirit kind and bold.
And made him kneel, and pray
That the crime for which the calm was sent
Might clean be purged away.
And set the vessel free:
’Twas a dreadful curse, to lie becalmed
Upon that charnel sea.
Nor why the calm was sent;
I could not give that knowledge dark
To a soul so innocent.
Rise in that sky of flame,
A little cloud, that grew and grew,
And blackened as it came.
Grow dark as was the sky;
And waterspouts, with rushing sound,
Like giants passed us by.
A hollow wind did blow;
The sullen waves swung heavily;
The ship rocked to and fro.
Its horrid hold undoing;
I saw the plagues of wind and storm
Their missioned work pursuing.
A groan in the heaving sea:
The captain rushed from his place below,
But durst not look on me.
And set the helm to go,
And every sail he crowded on
As the furious winds did blow.
Before the tempest’s rout;
The naked masts came crashing down,
The wild ship plunged about.
Clung, till their strength was gone;
And I saw them from their feeble hold
Washed over, one by one;
And the roaring of the sea,
I heard the dismal, drowning cries
Of their last agony.
A curse in the boiling wave;
And the captain knew that vengeance came
From the old man’s ocean-grave.
In a hollow voice and low,
’Tis a cry of blood doth follow us,
And still doth plague us so!’
With desperate strength took he,
And ten of the strongest mariners
Did cast them into the sea.
There came a hollow groan;—
The captain by the gunwale stood,
And looked like icy stone,
With a gasping sob he drew in his breath,
And spasms of death came on.
With a rushing thundering roar;
I saw him fall before its force,
But I never saw him more.
We were forty men and five,
But ere the middle of that night
There were but two alive—
And he clung to me in fear.
Oh! it was pitiful to see
That meek child in his misery,
And his little prayers to hear.
’Twas calmer; and anon
The clear sun shone; and, warm and low
A steady wind from the west did blow,
And drove us gently on.
That fair young child and I;
His heart was as a man’s in strength,
And he uttered not a cry.
And water we had none,
Yet he murmured not, and talked of hope,
When my last hopes were gone.
I saw him waste and waste away,
And his rosy cheek grow wan.
For many nights and days,
We were too weak to raise a sail,
Had there been one to raise.
On, o’er the pathless tide;
And I lay in sleep, ’twixt life and death,
With the young child at my side.
Amid the Great South Sea,
An English vessel passed us by
That was sailing cheerily.
Unheard by me that vessel hailed,
And asked what we might be.
And gave an answering word;
And they drew him from the drifting wreck,
As light as is a bird.
And put again to sea:—
‘Not yet! not yet!’ he feebly cried;
‘There was a man with me!’
Where, like one dead, I lay;
And a ship-boy small had strength enough
To carry me away.
That fair warm ship to see,
And to hear the child within his bed
Speak pleasant words to me!
That all our pain was o’er,
And in a blessed ship of Heaven
We voyaged to its shore:
Beside our bed to pray,
And men with hearts most merciful
That watched us night and day.
Of wreck and wild distress;
But, even then, I told to none
The captain’s wickedness.
His soul with sense of shame;
’Twere an evil thing, thought I, to blast
A sinless orphan’s name!
So he grew to be a man of wealth
And honourable fame.
I sailed with him the sea,
And in all the sorrows of my life
He was a friend to me;
And God hath blessed him everywhere
With a great prosperity.”