Part VIII
A bow-shot from the city-gate
Turned Marien from the plain,
Intent by unfrequented ways
The mountain-land to gain.
With bounding step she onward went,
Over the moorland fells;
O’er fragrant tracks of purple thyme,
And crimson heather-bells.
Joyful in her release she went,
Still onward yet, and higher;
Up many a mossy, stony steep,
Through many a flock of mountain sheep,
By the hill-tarns so dark and deep,
As if she could not tire.
Onward and upward still she went
Among the breezy hills,
Singing for very joyfulness
Unto the singing rills.
The days of her captivity,
The days of fear and pain,
Were past, and now through shade and shine,
She wandered free again.
Free, like the breezes of the hill,
Free, like the waters wild;
And in her fullness of delight,
Unceasingly from height to height
Went on the blessed child.
And ever when she needed food,
Some wanderer of the hill
Drew forth the morsel from his scrip,
And bade her eat her fill.
For He who fed by Cherith-brook
The prophet in his need,
Of this his wandering little one
Unceasingly had heed.
And ever when she needed rest,
Some little cove she found,
So green, so sheltered, and so still,
Upon the bosom of the hill,
As angels girt it round.
Thus hidden ’mong the quiet hills
Alone, yet wanting nought,
She dwelt secure, until her foes
For her no longer sought.
Then forth she journeyed. Soon the hills
Were of more smooth descent;
And downward now, and onward still,
Toward the sea she went.
Toward the great sea for many days;
And now she heard its roar;
Had sunlit glimpses of it now,
And now she trod the shore.
A rugged shore of broken cliffs,
And barren wave-washed sand,
Where only the dry sea-wheat grew
By patches on the strand.
A weary way walked Marien
Beside the booming sea,
Nor boat, nor hut, nor fisherman
Throughout the day saw she.
A weary, solitary way;
And as the day declined
Over the dark and troubled sea
Arose a stormy wind.
The heavy waves came roaring in
With the strong coming tide;
The rain poured down, and deep dark night
Closed in on every side.
There stood the homeless Marien
With bare, unsandaled feet;
And on her form, with pitiless force,
The raging tempest beat.
Clasping her hands, she stood forlorn,
“In tempest, and in night:”
She cried, “Oh Lord, I trust in thee,
And thou wilt lead me right!”
Now underneath a shelving bank
Of sea-driving sand, there stood
A miserable hut, the home
Of a poor fisher good,
Whose loving wife but yesternight
Died in his arms, and he,
Since that day’s noon, alone had been
Casting his nets at sea.
At noon he kissed his little ones,
And would be back, he said,
Long ere night closed; but with the night
Arose that tempest dread.
It was an old and crazy boat,
Wherein the man was set,
And soon ’twas laden heavily
With many a laden net.
“Oh sorrow, sorrow!” groaned he forth,
As rose the sudden squall,
Thinking upon the mother dead,
And on his children small.
“Oh sorrow, sorrow!” loud he cried,
As the helm flew from his hand,
And he knew that the boat was sinking
But half a league from land.
“Oh sorrow, sorrow!” as he sank
Was still his wailing cry;
And Marien heard amid the storm,
That voice of misery.
Now all this while the children small
Kept in their dreary place,
Troubled and sad, and half afear’d
Of their dead mother’s face.
And when, to while the time, they played
With shells beside the door,
They found they had not hearts for mirth,
And so they played no more.
Yet keeping up with forced content
Their hearts as best they might,
Still wishing afternoon were gone,
And it was only night.
But when, hour after hour went on,
And the night tempest black
Raged o’er the stormy sea, and still
The father came not back;
It would have touched a heart of stone
To see their looks of fear—
So young and so forlorn;—their words
Of counsel small to hear.
And now they shouted through the storm;
And then with bitter wit,
As they had seen their mother do,
A fire of wood they lit,
That he might see the light afar
And steer his boat by it.
Unto this light came Marien;
And ere her weary feet
Had reached the floor, the children ran
With eager arms to meet
Their loving father, as they thought,
And give him welcome sweet.
Alas! the father even then
Had run his mortal race;
But God had sent his Comforter
To fill his earthly place.