Classic Poem

Fathoms deep the ship doth lie,
Wreath'd with ocean weed and shell,
Still and deep the shadows lie,
Dusky as a forest dell:
Tangled in the twisted sail,
With the breathing of the Sea,
Stirs the Man who told this tale,
Staring upward dreamilie.

I laid him here, and scarcely wept; but look!
His grave is green and wild and like a wave,
And strewn with ocean-shells instead of flowers.

You saw him long ago, on board the Erne ,
Cod-fishing in Newfoundland, and (you mind?)
We drank a gill, all three, the very day
Before the Erne went down off Fitful Head,
And all the crew were drown'd but brother Dan.
Strange, that a man who faced so many a storm,
And stood on splitting planks and never quail'd,
And swam to save his life a dozen times,
Should ever die ashore! Why, from the first,
We twins were meant for sailors: — God Himself
Planted a breeze in both our brains to blow
Our bodies up and down. His calms and storms.
Never had wilder, stormier year been known
Here in the clachan, than the very year
When Dan and I were born; — waters and winds
Roar'd through the wintry season, and the sounds
And sights weigh'd on our Highland mother's heart,
Giving her whims and moods in which the clay
Beneath her heart was fashion'd; and in March
The Scaith came down the valley, screaming past
Her ears the very hour that we were born.

When other boys were mumping at the school,
I went as cabin-lad on board a whaler,
And Dan took up his canvas-bag, tied up
His serk and comb and brush, with two or three
Big home-baked bannocks and a lump of cheese,
Kiss'd mother, (that's her grave beside his own,)
And walk'd to Aberdeen, where soon he found
A berth on board a brig — the Jessie Gray ,
Bound south for Cadiz. After that for years
We drifted up and down; — and when we met
Down in the Forth, and journey'd home together,
We both were twenty, Dan was poor as ever,
But I had saved. How changed he look'd! how fine!
Brown cheek and bit o' whisker, hands like steel,
A build as sturdy as a mountain fir's, —
Ay, every inch a sailor! Then, the tales
We had for one another! — tales of storms
And sights on land, pranks play'd and places seen! —
But, " Bob, I'm tired of being on the seas,
The life's a hard one at the best," says Dan;
And I was like a fool and thought the same.
So home we came, found father dead and gone,
And mother sorely push'd; and round her neck
We threw our arms, and kiss'd her, and she cried,
And we cried too, and I took out my pay,
And pour'd it in her lap; but Dan look'd grieved,
And, glancing from the pay to mother, cried,
" I'll never, never go to sea again!"

'Tis thirty years ago, and yet right well
I mind it all. How pleasant for a time
Was life on land: the tousling with the girls,
The merry-making in the public-house,
The cosy bed on winter nights. We work'd —
I at the fishing, Dan at making nets —
And kept old mother for a year and more.
But ere the year was out, the life grew dull:
We never heard the wind blow, but we thought
Of sailing on the sea, — we got a knack
Of living on the beach and listening
To the great waters. Still, for mother's sake,
Ashore we had to tarry. By and by,
The restlessness grew worse, and show'd itself
In other ways, — taking a drop too much,
Fighting and cutty-stooling — and the folk
Began to shake their heads. Amid it all,
One night when Dan was reading out God's Book,
(That bit about the Storm, where Peter tries
To walk on water, and begins to sink,)
Old mother sigh'd and seem'd to go to sleep,
And when we tried to wake her, she was dead.

With sore, sore hearts we laid poor mother down;
And walk'd that day up yonder cliffs, and lay
A hearkening to the Sea that wash'd beneath:
Far, far away we saw a sail gleam wet
Out of a rainy spot below the line
Where sky and water meet; the Deep was calm,
And overhead went clouds whose shadows floated
Slowly beneath, and here and there were places
Purple and green and blue, and close to land
The red-sail'd fish-boats in a violet patch.
I look'd at brother Dan, Dan look'd at me, —
And that same morning, off we went again!

No rest for us on land from that day forth.
We grew to love the waters; they became
Part of our flesh and blood; the Sea, the Sea,
The busy whistling round the foam-girt world,
Was all our pleasure. Now and then we met, —
Once in a year or two, and never came
To Scotland but we took a journey here
To look on mother's grave, and spend a day
With old companions. But we never thought
Of resting long, and never hoped to die
Ashore, like mother: we had fix'd it, Jack,
That we must drown some day. At last, by luck,
We ran together. Dan had got a place
As captain of a brig, and, press'd by him,
They made me mate. Ten years we sail'd together,
From Liverpool to New South Wales and back;
And we were lads no more, but staid, strong men,
Forty and upward, — yet with kibble arms,
Brown cheeks, and cheerful hearts. Then the ill wind
That blows no good to anyone began,
And brought us back to Scotland, to this place
Where we were born and bred.

Now, mark you, Jack,
Even a sailor is but flesh and blood,
Though out upon the water he can laugh
At women and their ways; a run on shore,
A splash among the dawties and the drink,
Soon tires, soon tires — then hey! away again
To the wild life that's worthy of a man!
At forty, though, a sailor should be wise,
And 'ware temptation: whole a sailor, free,
But only half a sailor, though afloat,
When wedded. Don't you guess? Though Dan was old,
His head was turn'd, while in the clachan here,
And by a woman, — Effie Paterson,
The daughter of a farmer on the hills,
And only twenty. Bonnie, say you? Ay,
As sweet a pout as ever grew on land;
But soft and tender, with a quiet face
That needed the warm hearth to light it up,
And went snow-pallid at a puff of wind
Or whiff of danger. When I saw the trap,
I tried my best to wheedle Dan away,
Back to the brig; but, red as ricks on fire,
He glinted with those angry eyes of his,
And linger'd. Then, 'twas nearly time to sail;
I talk'd of going, and it all came out:
He meant to marry , Jack! — and not content
With marrying, he meant to stop ashore!

Why, if a lightning flash had split our craft,
I should have wonder'd less. But, " Bob," says he,
" I love this lassie as I never thought
'Twas in my heart to love; and I have saved;
And I am tired of drifting here and there
On yonder waters: I have earn'd my rest,
And mean to stop ashore until I die."
'Twas little use to argue things with Dan
When he had settled aught within his mind;
So all I said was vain. What could I do
But put a sunny face upon it all,
And bid him hasten on the day, that I
Might see his wedding, and be off again?

Yet soon I guess'd, before the wedding day,
That Effie did not care a cheep for Dan,
But scunner'd at his brave rough ways and tales
Of danger on the deep. His was a voice
Meant for the winds, with little power to whisper
The soft sleek things that make the women blush,
And tingle, and look sweet. Moreover, Dan
Was forty, and the lassie but a child.
I saw it all, but dared not speak my thought!
For Dan had money, Effie's folks were poor,
And Dan was blind, and Effie gave consent,
And talk was no avail. The wedding guests
Went up to Effie's home one pleasant day,
The minister dropp'd in, the kirk-bells rang,
And all was over. 'Twas a summer morn,
The blue above was fleck'd with feathery down,
The Sea was smooth, and peaceful, and the kirk
Stood mossy here upon the little hill,
And seem'd to smile a blessing over all.

And Effie? Ah! keep me from women, Jack!
Give them a bit o' sunshine — and they smile,
Give them a bit o' darkness — and they weep;
But smiles and tears with them are easy things,
And cheat ye like the winds. On such a day,
With everybody happy roundabout,
Effie look'd happy too; and if her face
Flush'd and was fearful, that was only joy;
For when a woman blushes, who can tell
Whether the cause be gladness, pride, or shame?
And Dan (God bless him!) look'd as young as you,
Trembled and redden'd lass-like, and I swear,
Had he not been a sailor, would have cried.
So I was cheer'd, next day, when off I went
To take his post as captain of the brig,
And I forgot my fears, and thought them wrong,
And went across the seas with easy heart,
Thinking I left a happy man behind.

But often, out at sea, I thought of Dan,
Wonder'd if he was happy. When the nights
Were quiet, still, and peaceful, I would lie
And listen to the washing of the waves,
And think; " I wonder if this very light
Is dropping far away on poor old Dan?
And if his face looks happy in it, while
He sleeps by Effie's side?" On windy nights
I used to think of Dan with trouble and fear;
And often, when the waves were mountains high,
And we were lying-to before the wind,
The screaming surges seem'd to take the shape
Of this old clachan, and I seem'd to hear
Dan calling me; and I would drink the salt,
And pace the deck with all my blood on fire,
Thinking — " If Dan were driving on out here,
Dashing and weather-beaten, never still,
He would be happier!"

Ay! though the Storm
Roll'd on between us, voices came from Dan
To tell me he was lonely on the land.
Often, when I was sailing in the ship,
He crept about these caves and watch'd the Moon
Silv'ring the windless places of the sea,
And thought of me! or on the beach he lay,
And wearied to the breaking of the waves!
Or out from land he row'd his boat, and gazed
Wistfully eastward! or on windy nights
He speel'd yon cliffs above the shore, and set
His teeth together in the rain and wind,
Straining eyes seaward, seeking lights at sea,
And pacing up and down upon the brink
As if he trode the decks! Why, things like those
Saved him from sinking, salted all his blood,
And soothed his heartache. Wind and wave are far
More merciful than a young woman's heart!

Why, had she been a bickering hizzle, fill'd
With fire and temper, stubborn as a whin,
And cushlingmushling o'er a cheerless fire,
Dan might have brought her round: that was the work
He understood full well; and, right or wrong,
He would have been the Skipper to the end.
But though a man who has been train'd at sea,
Holding a hard strong grip on desperate men,
Can sink his voice and play a gentle part
In sunny seasons, he has little power
To fight with women's weapons. Dan, be sure,
Loved Effie with a love the deeper far
And tenderer because he had been bred
On the rough brine; but when, from day to day,
He met a weary and a waning face,
That tried to smile, indeed, but could not smile,
And saw the tears where never tears should be,
Yet never met an angry look or word,
What could he do? He loved the lass too well
To scold; tried soothing words, but they were spent
Upon a heart where the cold crancreuch grew;
And, when the sorrow grew too sharp to bear,
Stole sicken'd from the dwelling. Plain he saw
The lass was dreary, though she kept so still,
And loved him not, though nothing harsh was said,
But fretted, and grew thin, and haunted him
With a pale face of gentleness and grief.
O Jack, Jack, Jack! of all the things accurst,
Worse than a tempest and the rocks ahead,
Is misty weather, not a breath of wind,
And the low moaning of some unseen shore!
Homeless and sad and troubled by her face,
If Dan had let his heart and brain keep still,
Let the sick mildew settle on his soul,
He would have shrunk into a wretched thing
The rains might beat on, and the winds might lash,
And ne'er have had the heart to stand erect,
And set his teeth, and face them, and subdue.
What could he do, but try to ease his heart
By haunting yonder beach, and glorying
In stormy seasons, thinking of the life
He used to lead, with ocean-sound for ever
Making a second life within his blood,
Thinking of me, and feeling that his soul
Was soothed a bit by his old friend the Sea?

And Effie, as the dawn look'd down each day,
Turn'd from the happy shining of the sun,
In wanrest and in tears; and poor old Dan
Dree'd bitterly the dreary life on land.
No stanchgrass ever heal'd a wound so deep!

'Twas comfort dwelling in so wild a place,
So near to open water; but for that,
I do not think he could have borne to dwell
Pining ashore. His trouble grew and grew:
No corsy-belly warm'd at Effie's fire,
No doctor's watch tick'd by the jizzen-bed,
No sound of tiny footfalls fill'd the house
With happy cheer; the dull and lifeless mood
Grew on the wife; her sense of shame seem'd gone;
She paid no heed to dress, or to the house,
But faded, like a pale-faced, listless flower,
Grown in a weedy garden. Then, indeed,
To see all household goods neglected so,
The crowsfeet gathering round Effie's eyes,
The ingleside so cheerless and so cold,
Dan clench'd his fists, and storm'd with thunder-voice;
But Effie only trembled, and was still,
Or threw her apron o'er her face and wept;
And Dan, who never in his life could bear
To see a woman weep, pleaded and begg'd, —
Without avail. Then many and many a night
He roam'd the silent cliffs till peep of day,
Or join'd the fishers, out upon the sea;
And many and many a night he thought he heard
My voice a-calling him. One night of storm,
When the sky murmur'd, and the foam-fleck'd sea
Flash'd in the fireflaught round the shadowy cliffs,
He fix'd to run away; — but could not go,
Until he gazed on Effie's face once more;
And when he stole into her room unheard,
He saw her sleeping with a happy smile,
So still, so sweet, so bonnie in her dream,
So like the shining lass she used to be,
That his heart sank, he swaver'd forth again,
And lay upon the waterside and wept,
And tho' the wind was whistling in his eyes,
Tho' the still fireflaught flash'd upon the foam,
He felt too weak, too timid, and too sad,
To quit her in the little cottage here,
And dree again the dangers of the deep.

The house is yonder — ay, the slated house,
With little patch of garden. Mark the pool
Of water at the door. Beyond you see
The line of boats, drawn high and dry, and yonder
The dull, green water, with the purple stain
Out eastward, and the sunlight slanting through
Upon a sail. Mark how the clachan lies
Down in the gully, with the barren hills,
Where never ran-tree waves its silver hair,
On either side. Look backward, now! The glen,
Hollow'd between the hills, goes inland, far
As eye can see — with yellow pools of rain,
And cattle looking shadowy in the mists
Upon the slopes. How still and dull looks all!
'Tis plain you gather, with a sailor's eye,
The danger. When the rains have lasted long,
The yellow Waters (rightly christen'd here
The Scaith o' Bartle) gather up the glen,
Suck in the strength of flying mist and cloud,
And, bursting from the hollows where they meet,
Rush seaward, with a roaring like the sea,
O'erwhelming all. Thrice has the mischief come
In one-and-twenty years.

When I came home,
A month ago, and walk'd across the hills
From Cardy town, I paused on yonder cliffs,
And saw the clachan lying at my feet, —
The setting sun shining upon the house
Where Dan was dwelling. Nought was alter'd there!
The very smacks, and fish-boats just the same
As when I quitted. While I stood and gazed,
I saw a stooping figure with a staff,
Standing hard by me on the cliffs, and gazing
Silently seaward. As I look'd, he turn'd,
And though the face was haggard, worn, and old,
And every hair upon the head was gray,
And the fresh life about the limbs was lost,
I knew old Dan, and, shouting blithely, ran
To hug him to my heart; and he turn'd white,
Shaking like straw in wind, to find 'twas me .
Then, when the shock was over, and we talk'd,
He brighten'd; — as an icicle turns bright
When shone on. But my heart was shock'd and sore!
He was the ghost of what he once had been;
His voice was broken, and his welcome seem'd
Like one's who, sinking on his pillow, smiles
To see a face he loves before he dies;
And when his air grew cheerier, and at last
His love for me came lighter on his look,
His cheerness seem'd sadder far than all.
Swavering down the path, he took my arm,
Leant heavily on his staff, as if he dream'd,
Talk'd of old times, and friends alive and dead,
Until we halted at his cottage door;
And, while he lifted up the latch, he cast
His eyes to windward, read the weather signs,
After old habit, ere he enter'd in.

Effie was there, — changed too; she welcomed me,
Moved but and ben the house with a light step,
And smiled a bit: — all women have a smile,
A happiness, a kind of second self,
Kept for fresh faces. Yet I saw full soon
The bield was homeless; little love was there;
Ah, that was common talk around about!
The first flush faded soon from Effie's face,
Leaving it dull and wan; she moved about
Like a sick lassie risen from a dream;
And oft, when we were seated in the lowe,
She started, and her colour went and came;
And though her features wore a kind of fear,
There was a light of youth there: she would keek
At Dan, whose eyes were fix'd upon the fire,
Hang o'er her knitting, breathing deep, and then
Hearken and hearken, till the soft bright blush
Died by degrees, her face became composed
To pallor, and the light had gone away,
Leaving her sick and soopit once again.

At last, when we were smoking in the bield
One dull day in November, Dan arose
And took his stick, and, beckoning me, went out:
I follow'd; and he never spake a word,
But gript me by the arm, and walk'd along,
Until we left the clachan far behind,
And took a pathway winding up the hills.
For many weeks, at intervals, the rain
Had fallen; and the hills were dreeping damp,
And down their sides ran many streams new-born,
Making an eerie murmur. Far away
Ben Callachan was glimmering through a mist,
And all round Bartle rose a vaporous steam
Silent and white, with cattle here and there
Dismally looming. Still and dull was all —
So still, so chill; only the faint sharp stir
That is a sound, but seems a click within
The ear itself; — save when from far away
A cow would low, and echoes faint and far
Died inland, or when, blowing on the wind,
A cry came from the sea, whose waves we saw
Beyond us, breaking in a shadowy cloud,
With gleams of glittering foam. But Dan walk'd on,
Scarce heeding ought; and yet his sailor's eye
Took in the signs, and glinted up and down
With the old cunning; but his heart was full,
His voice was broken like a weeping wean's,
And as we went along he told me all.

All that you guess! but somewhat more — a thought,
Of later growth, a nettle in his heart —
That Effie was not true, as wives should be;
And that her fairest thoughts were fallen things
That clung around a fresh young lover's knees.
I stared at Dan, and hearken'd in amaze!
His grip was tight upon my arm, his face
White as the snow on Callachan, his voice
Shrill as a sea-gull's shriek; and all at once
He waved his arms, turn'd his wild face away,
And cried aloud with a full heart — " O God!
Why did I ever cease to sail the Sea?"

I tried to argue with him — he was dumb!
And yet I saw, had I been daft enough
To echo him, he would have hated me,
He only half believed the things he said,
And would have turn'd in wrath on any man
Who could believe them true, and say the same.
He loved the braxie still, as few can love.
Save the Good Shepherd, who has love for all!
Could not have tholed to hear another's thoughts
Condemn her! blamed himself for all his grief!
And gladly would have died beneath her feet,
To win one word, one kiss, one shining look,
To show his love had not been quite in vain!

But on we fared, so fill'd with our own thoughts,
We scarcely saw how far away we wander'd,
How mirk all grew, how close the gathering clouds
Drew to the hill-tops, while the cattle raised
Their heads into the dismal air and cried.
Then, suddenly, there came a lightning gleam
That for a moment lighted up the hills,
The far off cliffs, and the far flash of foam,
And faded, — to a sound as if the earth
And heavens were torn asunder. Soon the storm
Deepen'd — the thunder and the lightning came
Ofter than dark or silence; and I felt
Far less myself on those dull endless heights,
Than seeing, hearing, from my ship at sea,
But Dan said little; only, as the drops
Of rain began to fall, he led the way
Into a mountain shieling, roof'd with turfs,
Where we in shelter crouch'd, and still talk'd on
Of his dull ingleside, his darken'd days,
The terror and the pain he had to dree.
And " All I care for now is ended, Bob!
I want to die, but not to leave the lass
Untended and unhappy. After all,
I cannot blame her for her crancreuch face, —
She is so young — mid-eild is past with me —
Be sure that she would love me if she could!"
And then he glower'd out on the dark, and groan'd,
" Would I were in my grave! — would I were doom'd
Among the waves! — would I were far out yonder,
Praying and sinking in a boat at sea!"

And I was silent; but the elements
Made answer. With a clash like iron fell
The headlong torrent of the soot-black clouds,
Drowning the thunders with its dreesome cry,
Birming above, around, and smiting earth
With strength of stone. Never for many a year
Had such a fall been known: it seem'd the Lord
Unlocking all His waters to destroy
The bad world o'er again. No rainbow there
To promise sunshine and a speedy end!
For 'twas the Black Rain, which had once or twice
Gone southward, making frighted, Elders groan,
And which old wives in Bartle often call
The " Deil's rain," thinking Satan flies himself,
Dropping the dreadful blackness from above.
Silent we waited, watching, and the air
Was full of a great roar — the sods beneath
Seem'd shaking — and the rain-wash forced a way
Through the thick turf above our heads, and fell
Upon us, splashing, as with watery ink,
Our hands and faces. But I saw Dan's eye
Had kindled. He was younger. For the sounds
Quicken'd his sense of life, brought up his strength,
And minded him of former fearsome days
Upon the Ocean; and his other self —
The sickly self that lived the life on land —
Forsook him. Then there was a lull, a pause —
Not broken by the further fall of rain,
Nor by the thunder-claps, but by a sign
More terrible than all — a roar, a groan,
A motion as of waters, and a sound
Like the dread surging of an angry Sea.

And Dan threw up his arms, screaming aloud,
" T HE S CAITH! THE S CAITH !" — and groan'd, and rush'd away, —
I following close behind him in the mirk.
And on he tore, until he gain'd a craig,
Above the glen, yonder between the hills;
And cattle huddled round him, lowing loud,
And the Scaith thicken'd, and the murmur grew,
While we gazed down. The mists hung round the heights,
The rain still fell, but faintly, — and below,
Roaring on seaward, snatching in its course
Boulders and trees and cattle, rush'd the Scaith,
A blacken'd yellow wash of waters, foaming
Where'er it touched the feet of stone or steep,
And dizzily whirling round the great tree-roots
To twist them from their beds. White, scared, and stunn'd,
Dan groan'd, and sank upon his knees, and sobbed.
Done was the thunder; but the waters made
Another thunder, and the fireflaught came
Fainter and fainter. Then we heard from far
A sound more awful — shrieks of living men,
Children and women; while the thinning clouds
Parted to westward, brightening at the rims,
And rays of misty sunset slanted down
On Bartle, and the Scaith had seized its prey.

" Effie!" cried Dan; and sped along the hills,
And would have rush'd right downward to his death
Had I not gript him. But we found a way
O'er the hillside, and gain'd the northern height
Above the clachan. Jack, until I die,
That hour will haunt me! For the village lay
Naip-deep beneath the moaning rain-dyed flood,
And bields sank shatter'd, and the sunset cold
Gleam'd upon Bartle and the sea beyond;
And on the slopes on either side there gather'd
Women and men: some screeching as they saw
The Scaith drink up their houses and their goods,
Some crying for the friends they could not see,
Some sitting still, and looking on their bairns,
As if they had gone wild. Then Dan glared round,
Seeking for Effie, — but he saw her not;
And the damp sunset gleaming on his face,
Grimed with the rain-drops, show'd it ghastly pale,
But he was cool as he had often been
On gruesome nights at sea. " She is not here!"
He whispered; " yet she cannot but be saved.
Perchance she gathers with the folk that stand
Waving their arms yonder across the flood:
Oh! would my eyes were young that I might see."
That way I gazed; but all that I could see
Were mists beyond the clachan; down below,
The wildly washing waters; here and there,
Women and children screaming on the roofs,
While punts and skiffs were gliding here and there,
Piloting slowly through the rocks and walls,
To succour those unsaved; at intervals
A leafless tree-top peering through the water,
While frighted birds lit on its twigs, or wheel'd
Around it crying. Then, " A boat! a boat!"
Dan cried; but he was crying to the air:
The folk around him heard and made a stir, —
But some scarce raised their wild and watery eyes,
And some stopp'd moaning, look'd at him who cried,
And then again sat rocking to and fro,
Gazing straight downward, and with eerie groans
Bewailing their own sorrow.

Then the place
Blacken'd in gloaming — mists rose from the flood —
The sky turn'd black, with neither stars nor moon,
And down below, flashing from place to place,
The lights, like corpse-lights warning folk of death,
Flitted and faded, showing where the boats
Still moved about upon their weary work
And those who grieved were stiller all around;
The solemn moaning of the Scaith was hush'd,
Your ears could hear the sobbing of the Sea;
And only now and then a hollow splash
Spake plain of walls that yielded and slipt down
Into the waters. Then a light came near,
And to the water's edge a fishing-boat
Brought a dead fisher, and a little child
Who cried for " mither"; and as he who row'd
Handed the bairn to hungry outstretch'd arms,
And landed with the corpse, old Dan leapt in,
Snatching the lanthorn from the fisher's hand,
Push'd off ere I could follow, and had flown
Into the darkness ...

Jack, — I never again
Saw poor old Dan, alive! Yet it was well
His woes were ended; for that very day,
Ere the Scaith came, Effie had crept from home, —
Ay, with a man; — and ere I knew the truth
Why, she was out upon the ocean waves,
And fleeing with the loon to Canada.
Ill winds pursue her! God will find her out!
He sent His water down to free old Dan,
And He is after her across the Deep!

Next dawning, when the Scaith was part subdued,
And sinking slowly through the seams of earth,
Pouring in bright brown burns to join the sea,
Fouling with mud the line of breaking foam,
'Twas a most piteous sight to see the folk,
With spade and mattock, digging at the graves
Of their own dwellings; taking what was saved
With bitter thankless faces. Fallen walls.
And trees uprooted from the waste hillsides,
And boulders swept from far along the glen,
And household lumber gather'd everywhere,
Mingled in ruin; and the frailer bields
Were swept away for ever. As for me,
I had my work in hand. I took a spade
And waded through the thick and muddy pools,
('Twas still waist-deep,) right onward to the place
Where Dan had dwelt. For something drew me there,
Foremost of all. The bield was standing still,
Though doors and windows had been beaten in;
And as I splash'd along the passage, bits
Of household lumber tripped me; but I went
Right on to Effie's room, and there the flood
Was lying black and cold; — and there lay Dan.

Washing upon the water, with his face
Drawn downward, his hands clench'd, his long gray hair
Rippling around him — stiff, and cold, and dead
And when I turn'd his face up to the light,
I did not scunner much — it look'd so strong,
So seaman-like, and fine. I saw it all!
How he had drifted thither in the dark,
And found the water low around the bield,
But slowly rising; how he fought his way,
Search'd but and ben, and last, in Effie's room,
Stood ghastly in the lanthorn light, and saw
The place was empty; how, while there he stood,
Staring in horror, with an eldritch cry
The wild S CAITH struck the crashing window panes,
Dash'd down the lanthorn, gript him in the dark,
Roar'd in his ears, and while it struck him down,
Out of his nostrils suck'd the breath of life.
Jack, Jack, we know there comes to men who drown
A sudden flashing picture of the past, —
And ah! how pitiful, how pitiful,
In that last minute did the picture come!
A vision of the sounding Sea afar,
A ghaistly ship upon it, — Effie's face,
Coming and going like to floating foam, —
The picture of the kirk upon the hill,
And sunshine smiling on the wedding guests, —
The shadowy cliffs where he had paced in pain,
The waves, the sun, the moon, the thought of me ,
All thicken'd on him as he scream'd her name,
And struggled with the cruel Scaith, and died!

Ay! God Almighty's water, e'en ashore,
More merciful than women, found him out;
And here he lies, but should have lain elsewhere.
Had Scots law, and the blethering women's tongues,
Not hinder'd me, — I would have ta'en a boat,
And sewn his body in a sheet, with stones
Fasten'd beneath his soles to sink him down,
And row'd out yonder, westward, where the sun
Dips red beneath the straight blue water line,
Then said a prayer, and softly sent him down
Where he could sleep in peace, and hear for ever
The washing of the waters through the depths:
With flag-flowers o'er his head, great weeds all round,
And white salt foam-bells hanging in his ears,
His would have been a sailor's sleep indeed!
But as it is, he slumbers here on land,
In shade of Bartle Kirk, 'mong country loons
And fishermen that shrink at open Sea.