Soul Ferry
High and dry upon the shingle lies the fisher’s boat to-night; From his roof-beam dankly drooping, raying phosphorescent light, Spectral in its pale-blue splendour, hangs his heap of scaly nets, And the fisher, lapt in slumber, surge and seine alike forgets.
Hark! there comes a sudden knocking, and the fisher starts from sleep, As a hollow voice and ghostly bids him once more seek the deep; Wearily across his shoulder flingeth he the ashen oar, And upon the beach descending finds a skiff beside the shore.
’Tis not his, but he must enter — rocking on the waters dim, Awful in their hidden presence, who are they that wait for him? Who are they that sit so silent, as he pulleth from the land — Nothing heard save rumbling rowlock, wave soft-breaking on the sand?
Chill adown the tossing channel blows the wailing, wand’ring breeze, Lonely in the murky midnight, mutt’ring mournful memories, — Summer lands where once it brooded, wrecks that widows’ hearts have wrung — Swift the dreary boat flies onwards, spray, like rain, around it flung.
On a pebbled strand it grateth, ghastly cliffs around it loom, Thin and melancholy voices faintly murmur through the gloom; Voices only, lipless voices, and the fisherman turns pale, As the mother greets her children, sisters landing brothers hail.
Lightened of its unseen burden, cork-like rides the rocking bark, Fast the fisherman flies homewards o’er the billows deep and dark; THAT boat needs no mortal’s mooring — sad at heart he seeks his bed, For his life henceforth is clouded — he hath piloted the Dead!
Sir Henry Parkes.