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HANNAH BINDING SHOES

POOR lone Hannah,

Sitting at the window, binding shoes:
Faded, wrinkled,

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse.
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,

When the bloom was on the tree;-
Spring and winter,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Not a neighbor

Passing, nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper,

"Is there from the fishers any news?"
Oh, her heart's adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone;—
Night and morning,
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah,

Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily wooes;
Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all aglow,

And the waves are laughing so!
For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing;

'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes: Hannah shudders,

For the mild south-wester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,

Outward bound, a schooner sped;
Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

'Tis November:

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews,
From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose,

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Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views.
Twenty seasons:-

Never one has brought her any news.
Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea;-
Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

1579

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]

THE SAILOR

A ROMAIC BALLAD

THOU that hast a daughter
For one to woo and wed,
Give her to a husband

With snow upon his head;
Oh, give her to an old man,
Though little joy it be,
Before the best young sailor
That sails upon the sea!

How luckless is the sailor
When sick and like to die;
He sees no tender mother,

No sweetheart standing by.
Only the captain speaks to him,—
Stand up, stand up, young man,

And steer the ship to haven,

As none beside thee can.

Thou says't to me, "Stand, stand up";
I say to thee, take hold,

Lift me a little from the deck,

My hands and feet are cold.

And let my head, I pray thee,

With handkerchiefs be bound;
There, take my love's gold handkerchief,
And tie it tightly round.

Now bring the chart, the doleful chart;
See, where these mountains meet—
The clouds are thick around their head,
The mists around their feet:

Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe
Within the rocky cleft;

The little anchor on the right,

The great one on the left.

And now to thee, O captain,
Most earnestly I pray,
That they may never bury me
In church or cloister gray;-
But on the windy sea-beach,
At the ending of the land,
All on the surfy sea-beach,
Deep down into the sand.

For there will come the sailors,
Their voices I shall hear,
And at casting of the anchor

The yo-ho loud and clear;
And at hauling of the anchor
The yo-ho and the cheer,—
Farewell, my love, for to thy bay
I never more may steer!

William Allingham [1824-1889]

THE BURIAL OF THE DANE

BLUE gulf all around us,

Blue sky overhead

Muster all on the quarter,

We must bury the dead!

The Burial of the Dane

It is but a Danish sailor,
Rugged of front and form;
A common son of the forecastle,
Grizzled with sun and storm.

His name, and the strand he hailed from
We know, and there's nothing more!
But perhaps his mother is waiting
In the lonely Island of Fohr.

Still, as he lay there dying,
Reason drifting awreck,

""Tis my watch," he would mutter,
"I must go upon deck!"

Aye, on deck, by the foremast!

But watch and lookout are done;

The Union Jack laid o'er him,
How quiet he lies in the sun!

Slow the ponderous engine,
Stay the hurrying shaft;
Let the roll of the ocean

Cradle our giant craft;
Gather around the grating,
Carry your messmate aft!

Stand in order, and listen

To the holiest page of prayer!

Let every foot be quiet,

Every head be bare

The soft trade-wind is lifting
A hundred locks of hair.

Our captain reads the service,

(A little spray on his cheeks)

The grand old words of burial,

And the trust a true heart seeks:

"We therefore commit his body

To the deep"-and, as he speaks,

1581

Launched from the weather railing,
Swift as the eye can mark,
The ghastly, shotted hammock
Plunges, away from the shark,
Down, a thousand fathoms,
Down into the dark!

A thousand summers and winters
The stormy Gulf shall roll
High o'er his canvas coffin;

But, silence to doubt and dole:-
There's a quiet harbor somewhere
For the poor aweary soul.

Free the fettered engine,
Speed the tireless shaft,
Loose to'gallant and topsail,
The breeze is fair abaft!

Blue sea all around us,

Blue sky bright o'erhead

Every man to his duty,

We have buried our dead!

Henry Howard Brownell [1820–1872]

TOM BOWLING

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,

For death has broached him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful, below, he did his duty;
But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:

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