The Mary. - A Sea-Side Sketch.

Lov'st thou not, Alice, with the early tide     To see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast,     And stretch his sail towards the ocean wide, -     Like God's own beadsman going forth to cast     His net into the deep, which doth provide     Enormous bounties, hidden in its vast     Bosom like Charity's, for all who seek     And take its gracious boon thankful and meek?     The sea is bright with morning, - but the dark     Seems still to linger on his broad black sail,     For it is early hoisted, like a mark     For the low sun to shoot at with his pale     And level beams: All round the shadowy bark     The green wave glimmers, and the gentle gale     Swells in her canvas, till the waters show     The keel's new speed, and whiten at the bow.     Then look abaft - (for thou canst understand     That phrase) - and there he sitteth at the stern,     Grasping the tiller in his broad brown hand,     The hardy Fisherman. Thou may'st discern     Ten fathoms off the wrinkles in the tann'd     And honest countenance that he will turn     To look upon us, with a quiet gaze -     As we are passing on our several ways.     So, some ten days ago, on such a morn,     The Mary, like a seamew, sought her spoil     Amongst the finny race: 'twas when the corn     Woo'd the sharp sickle, and the golden toil     Summon'd all rustic hands to fill the horn     Of Ceres to the brim, that brave turmoil     Was at the prime, and Woodgate went to reap     His harvest too, upon the broad blue deep.     His mast was up, his anchor heaved aboard,     His mainsail stretching in the first gray gleams     Of morning, for the wind. Ben's eye was stored     With fishes - fishes swam in all his dreams,     And all the goodly east seem'd but a hoard     Of silvery fishes, that in shoals and streams     Groped into the deep dusk that fill'd the sky,     For him to catch in meshes of his eye.     For Ben had the true sailor's sanguine heart,     And saw the future with a boy's brave thought,     No doubts, nor faint misgivings had a part     In his bright visions - ay, before he caught     His fish, he sold them in the scaly mart,     And summ'd the net proceeds. This should have brought     Despair upon him when his hopes were foil'd,     But though one crop was marr'd, again he toil'd;     And sow'd his seed afresh. - Many foul blights     Perish'd his hard-won gains - yet he had plann'd     No schemes of too extravagant delights -     No goodly houses on the Goodwin sand -     But a small humble home, and loving nights,     Such as his honest heart and earnest hand     Might fairly purchase. Were these hopes too airy?     Such as they were, they rested on thee, Mary.     She was the prize of many a toilsome year,     And hardwon wages, on the perilous sea -     Of savings ever since the shipboy's tear     Was shed for home, that lay beyond the lee; -     She was purveyor for his other dear     Mary, and for the infant yet to be     Fruit of their married loves. These made him dote     Upon the homely beauties of his boat,     Whose pitch-black hull roll'd darkly on the wave,     No gayer than one single stripe of blue     Could make her swarthy sides. She seem'd a slave,     A negro among boats - that only knew     Hardship and rugged toil - no pennons brave     Flaunted upon the mast - but oft a few     Dark dripping jackets flutter'd to the air,     Ensigns of hardihood and toilsome care.     And when she ventured for the deep, she spread     A tawny sail against the sunbright sky,     Dark as a cloud that journeys overhead -     But then those tawny wings were stretch'd to fly     Across the wide sea desert for the bread     Of babes and mothers - many an anxious eye     Dwelt on her course, and many a fervent pray'r     Invoked the Heavens to protect and spare.     Where is she now? The secrets of the deep     Are dark and hidden from the human ken;     Only the sea-bird saw the surges sweep     Over the bark of the devoted Ben, -     Meanwhile a widow sobs and orphans weep,     And sighs are heard from weatherbeaten men,     Dark sunburnt men, uncouth and rude and hairy,     While loungers idly ask, "Where is the Mary?"