Chapter IV

The sounding tempest roars, the foaming wavesLash round the rugged coast; amid the howlOf raging winds is heard the signal gunWarning of danger and distress.

The sounding tempest roars, the foaming waves

Lash round the rugged coast; amid the howl

Of raging winds is heard the signal gun

Warning of danger and distress.

The thick curtains were drawn around the windows, excluding the sight, if not the sound, of the tempest without, and the cheerful group again encircled their warm and glowing fire, but much lamenting the absence of Herbert. Charles, with much animation, informed his mother that everything was well sheltered from the storm. “Philip has shut up old Brindle, snug and warm,” said he, “and I have helped him fill Robin’s crib.” “That is well, my good boy,” said his mother, “and now, after taking good care of your dependents, you can enjoy the comforts of a pleasant fireside.” Susan now recurred to the circumstance of the shipwreck and Mrs. Wilson read part of a little poem written on the occasion.

“’T’will be a wild and fearful night, mark the dark, rugged clouds;Now Heaven protect the mariners who hang upon the shrouds,”So spake the aged fisherman, as with a careful handHe well secured his little boat from parting from the land.“Look, boy, if there’s a ship in sight, my mind misgives me sore,That many a stout, brave heart now beats that soon shall beat no more.”“Why, Grandsire, always when it storms,” replied the thoughtless lad,“You think about the sailor-men, and feel so very bad.There’s not a single ship in sight, and it is true enoughI hope there is none near our coast, the weather is so rough.I should like to be a sailor if it always would be fair,But in a frightful storm like this I think I should not dare.”And now they left the stormy beach and gained their lowly home.Behind a sheltering hill it stood, secluded and alone.A warm, bright blaze illumined the little window of the room,And, at their steps, a smiling face peeped out into the storm.“Grandsire and Willie both have come,” said a playful little voice,“Come in out of the wind and rain, now mother will rejoice.We’ve got a very charming fire, and I have parched some cornAnd there is nothing now to do but sit down and be warm.”Her grandsire kissed her rosy cheek and with a merry airHer brother dropped his dripping hat upon her glossy hair.They gathered round the cheerful fire and while the sullen galeSwept mournful by, sat listening to many a piteous taleWhich the old grandsire told of days long past and gone,When a stout and hardy sailor he had weathered many a storm;And down the gentle mother’s cheek stole many a silent tear,While for her absent sailor boy her heart throbbed quick with fear.For, far away to foreign lands, her eldest one had sailed.And oft for fear in such a storm her loving heart had failed.The stormy wind howled fearfully around their lowly home,The angry waves dashed on the beach their sheets of glistening foam.That beach, whose shining sands reflect the sun’s bright sparkling ray,Is hid from sight amidst the dark, wild, blinding spray.“Lord, let thy holy will be done,” the pious old man said.As calm he bent his knees in prayer before he sought his bed,Though fearful were the stormy blasts and loud the billows’ roar.As gathering yet new strength they fiercely beat upon the shore,Yet, midst the wild and fearful din sweet sleep with visions brightHovered around their peaceful couch throughout that stormy night.And in hope’s glowing rosy tints painted the blissful hourWhen once again the wanderer’s feet shall cross his mother’s door.Far o’er that raging ocean and amidst old Scotia’s hills,Ah, many a kind and loving heart that night with rapture thrills.As Hope, delusive, marks the time when prosperous and gayTheir absent loved ones shall return from o’er the distant sea;That wished-for time will never come, for on New England’s coastThe gallant ship is ’midst the storm and howling tempest lost;And while the mother and the wife are dreaming of the hourThat to their home the much-loved son and husband will restore.The wind with loud and frightful roar drowns their last dying cryAnd ’mid the wild and dashing waves is spent their latest sigh.

“’T’will be a wild and fearful night, mark the dark, rugged clouds;

Now Heaven protect the mariners who hang upon the shrouds,”

So spake the aged fisherman, as with a careful hand

He well secured his little boat from parting from the land.

“Look, boy, if there’s a ship in sight, my mind misgives me sore,

That many a stout, brave heart now beats that soon shall beat no more.”

“Why, Grandsire, always when it storms,” replied the thoughtless lad,

“You think about the sailor-men, and feel so very bad.

There’s not a single ship in sight, and it is true enough

I hope there is none near our coast, the weather is so rough.

I should like to be a sailor if it always would be fair,

But in a frightful storm like this I think I should not dare.”

And now they left the stormy beach and gained their lowly home.

Behind a sheltering hill it stood, secluded and alone.

A warm, bright blaze illumined the little window of the room,

And, at their steps, a smiling face peeped out into the storm.

“Grandsire and Willie both have come,” said a playful little voice,

“Come in out of the wind and rain, now mother will rejoice.

We’ve got a very charming fire, and I have parched some corn

And there is nothing now to do but sit down and be warm.”

Her grandsire kissed her rosy cheek and with a merry air

Her brother dropped his dripping hat upon her glossy hair.

They gathered round the cheerful fire and while the sullen gale

Swept mournful by, sat listening to many a piteous tale

Which the old grandsire told of days long past and gone,

When a stout and hardy sailor he had weathered many a storm;

And down the gentle mother’s cheek stole many a silent tear,

While for her absent sailor boy her heart throbbed quick with fear.

For, far away to foreign lands, her eldest one had sailed.

And oft for fear in such a storm her loving heart had failed.

The stormy wind howled fearfully around their lowly home,

The angry waves dashed on the beach their sheets of glistening foam.

That beach, whose shining sands reflect the sun’s bright sparkling ray,

Is hid from sight amidst the dark, wild, blinding spray.

“Lord, let thy holy will be done,” the pious old man said.

As calm he bent his knees in prayer before he sought his bed,

Though fearful were the stormy blasts and loud the billows’ roar.

As gathering yet new strength they fiercely beat upon the shore,

Yet, midst the wild and fearful din sweet sleep with visions bright

Hovered around their peaceful couch throughout that stormy night.

And in hope’s glowing rosy tints painted the blissful hour

When once again the wanderer’s feet shall cross his mother’s door.

Far o’er that raging ocean and amidst old Scotia’s hills,

Ah, many a kind and loving heart that night with rapture thrills.

As Hope, delusive, marks the time when prosperous and gay

Their absent loved ones shall return from o’er the distant sea;

That wished-for time will never come, for on New England’s coast

The gallant ship is ’midst the storm and howling tempest lost;

And while the mother and the wife are dreaming of the hour

That to their home the much-loved son and husband will restore.

The wind with loud and frightful roar drowns their last dying cry

And ’mid the wild and dashing waves is spent their latest sigh.

“I like the ballad style of poetry,” said Mary; “it is so natural and so many little incidents may be introduced which touch the feelings and delight the fancy.” “I am an admirer of poetry,” said Mrs. Wilson, “but I have not patience to read much of the sickly sentiment, dignified by that name, which is beginning to be the style of the present day, and I much prefer the old English ballad, with all its homely simplicity.”

After a pleasant and lively conversation the evening was closed and they retired.

The storm had gradually subsided during the night and the morning sun shone clear. The turbulent waves had receded from the shining sands, a fresh and mild breeze dispersed every vapor and the Sabbath morning, in all its calm and peaceful stillness, was again welcomed. There is no feeling more delightful to one whose taste is in unison with it than the lovely quiet of a peaceful Sabbath morning. Even nature seems hushed, the wind lulled into more tranquil murmurs, and the notes of the birds on a summer day sound sweeter and more subdued. After the breakfast table was arranged in due order Philip and Phoebe presented themselves in their Sunday attire and smiling faces, prepared to join the family in listening to the reading of the Bible, and the day was spent in the usual Sabbath duties. “Mother,” said Charles, “I liked the sermon this afternoon very much because it was about Ruth.” “It is a story of much interest,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and read in connection with other parts of the Bible, of much profit.” “Was the country of the Moabites very rich and fertile at that time?” “There is no doubt of it, my son, but it is now accursed of God and almost deserted by man. Formerly it was a land abounding in wealth and all the luxuries of life, and through its thickly populated country ran a high road where were continually passing immense caravans loaded with rich merchandise, and travellers from different nations, thus distributing wealth throughout the whole territory. But the sound of trade and commerce has long since died upon its borders, the once fruitful soil no longer yields its treasures, and the wandering Bedouin gains but a miserable subsistence amidst its sandy deserts, which now echo only the heavy trot of his camels. We can hardly recognize in the description of late travelers the land of plenty which gave refuge to the famished Bethlehemites. I will read you a few lines of a poem entitled “Ruth.”

“Where Moab’s fertile plains once lay, in glowing beauty dressed,Now spreads a dreary, barren waste, far as the eye can rest.There, where a nation flourished once in plenty and repose,Scarce for the hardy camels’ feed, a scanty herbage grows.And o’er that sandy desert roams the Arab, fierce and wild,Where dwelt in peace the Moabite, and verdant meadows smiled.Thy pride, O haughty nation, has thy sure destruction wrought,And o’er thy once fair, happy land deep misery has brought.Where are your haughty sovereigns, your luxurious people, where?Your conquering armies, riches, splendor, mighty power?All, all are gone, amidst thy temples creep the briars and the Thorn,And deadly serpents hiss among thy palaces forlorn.”

“Where Moab’s fertile plains once lay, in glowing beauty dressed,

Now spreads a dreary, barren waste, far as the eye can rest.

There, where a nation flourished once in plenty and repose,

Scarce for the hardy camels’ feed, a scanty herbage grows.

And o’er that sandy desert roams the Arab, fierce and wild,

Where dwelt in peace the Moabite, and verdant meadows smiled.

Thy pride, O haughty nation, has thy sure destruction wrought,

And o’er thy once fair, happy land deep misery has brought.

Where are your haughty sovereigns, your luxurious people, where?

Your conquering armies, riches, splendor, mighty power?

All, all are gone, amidst thy temples creep the briars and the Thorn,

And deadly serpents hiss among thy palaces forlorn.”

“It has been a very pleasant Sabbath, dear Aunt,” said Mary, “so peaceful and quiet.” “I like to remember the Sabbaths of my youthful days,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Let me repeat some lines referring to them and you will remember, dear, that in those days lived many of our old Puritan ministers, so many of whom have now gone to their rest.”

SABBATH MORNING.

“How memory paintsThat hallowed morn, in youth’s bright, happy hours!The glorious sun seemed brighter, and the birdsSang sweeter on that sacred day; the flowers,Rich in their fragrance, seemed more fragrant then;A holy quiet rested o’er the scene;The week-day hum was hushed, no jarring soundDisturbed the placid stillness of the hour;The voices, which, with joyous glee, oft madeThe well remembered walls echo again,Are gentle and subdued, and even the dog,The faithful guardian of our rights, seems nowContent to waive his noisy privilegeAnd, stretched at length upon the sunny step,Blinks at the buzzing flies. In fair arrayOur little flock are watching the deep toneOf the old bell, to summon them to prayer;But now, no longer on its ancient seat,Rests the old church; ’tis gone; its tunnel roof,Its reverend porches, and its shining spireAll gone; and only memory’s fond dreamIs shadowing forth its antique lineaments.”

“How memory paints

That hallowed morn, in youth’s bright, happy hours!

The glorious sun seemed brighter, and the birds

Sang sweeter on that sacred day; the flowers,

Rich in their fragrance, seemed more fragrant then;

A holy quiet rested o’er the scene;

The week-day hum was hushed, no jarring sound

Disturbed the placid stillness of the hour;

The voices, which, with joyous glee, oft made

The well remembered walls echo again,

Are gentle and subdued, and even the dog,

The faithful guardian of our rights, seems now

Content to waive his noisy privilege

And, stretched at length upon the sunny step,

Blinks at the buzzing flies. In fair array

Our little flock are watching the deep tone

Of the old bell, to summon them to prayer;

But now, no longer on its ancient seat,

Rests the old church; ’tis gone; its tunnel roof,

Its reverend porches, and its shining spire

All gone; and only memory’s fond dream

Is shadowing forth its antique lineaments.”

After retiring for the night, “Well,” said Mary, “what has become of our sad forebodings for the winter?” “Do not sayourforebodings, dear sister, they weremine, and I am heartily ashamed of my discontented repinings. I never worked or studied with so much interest, and since the letter arrived informing us of the great improvement in our father’s health, I have been perfectly happy.” “I never knew,” said Mary, “the full meaning of our old theme before:

“Home is the resortOf peace and plenty, where, supporting and supported,Polished friends and dear relations mingle into bliss.”

“Home is the resort

Of peace and plenty, where, supporting and supported,

Polished friends and dear relations mingle into bliss.”

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