HANNAH BINDING SHOES POOR lone Hannah, Sitting at the window, binding shoes: Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. When the bloom was on the tree;- Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. Not a neighbor Passing, nod or answer will refuse "Is there from the fishers any news?" Fair young Hannah, Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily wooes; For a willing heart and hand he sues. And the waves are laughing so! 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. Outward bound, a schooner sped; Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 'Tis November: Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews, Not a sail returning will she lose, Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views. Never one has brought her any news. Chase the white sails o'er the sea;- Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 1579 Lucy Larcom [1824-1893] THE SAILOR A ROMAIC BALLAD THOU that hast a daughter With snow upon his head; How luckless is the sailor No sweetheart standing by. And steer the ship to haven, As none beside thee can. Thou says't to me, "Stand, stand up"; Lift me a little from the deck, My hands and feet are cold. And let my head, I pray thee, With handkerchiefs be bound; Now bring the chart, the doleful chart; Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe The little anchor on the right, The great one on the left. And now to thee, O captain, For there will come the sailors, The yo-ho loud and clear; 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, His name, and the strand he hailed from Still, as he lay there dying, ""Tis my watch," he would mutter, Aye, on deck, by the foremast! But watch and lookout are done; The Union Jack laid o'er him, Slow the ponderous engine, Cradle our giant craft; 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 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, A thousand summers and winters But, silence to doubt and dole:- Free the fettered engine, 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. Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, |