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?”