FOOTNOTES:[Q]These scenes are enacted at the "Prophet's Town," an Indian village, situated at the junction of the Tippecanoe river with the Wabash, the latter a tributary of the Ohio. Tecumseh is gone on a mission to the Southern Indians to induce them to unite in a confederation of all the Indian tribes, leaving his brother, the Prophet, in charge of the tribes already assembled, having strictly enjoined upon him not to quarrel with the Americans, or Long-Knives, as the Indians called them, during his absence. General Harrison, Governor of Indiana, and commander of the American forces, having learned of Tecumseh's plans, marches to attack the Prophet; but the latter, pretending to be friendly, sends out some chiefs to meet Harrison. By the advice of these chiefs, the Americans encamp on an elevated plateau, near the Prophet's Town,—"a very fitting place," to the mind of Harrison's officers, but to the practised eye of Harrison himself, also well fitted for a night attack by the Indians. He, therefore, very wisely makes all necessary preparations for defence against any sudden attack. Tecumseh has left behind him, under the protection of the Prophet, his wife, Mamatee, and his niece, Iena. He is accompanied on his mission by Lefroy, an English poet-artist, "enamoured of Indian life, and in love with Iena." The Prophet, who is hostile to Lefroy, intends to marry Iena to Tarhay, one of his chiefs, but Mamatee has gone to intercede with her brother-in-law for Iena, and, if possible, to turn him from his purpose.[R]Tecumseh had long foreseen that nothing but combination could prevent the encroachments of the whites upon the Ohio, and had long been successfully endeavoring to bring about a union of the tribes who inhabited its valley. The Fort Wayne treaties gave a wider scope to his design, and he now originated his great scheme of a federation of the entire red race. In pursuance of this object, his exertions, hitherto very arduous, became almost superhuman. He made repeated journeys, and visited almost every tribe from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes, and even north of them, and far to the west of the Mississippi. In order to further his scheme he took advantage of his brother's growing reputation as a prophet, and allowed him to gain a powerful hold upon the superstitious minds of his people by his preaching and predictions. The Prophet professed to have obtained from the Great Spirit a magic bowl, which possessed miraculous qualities; also a mystic torch, presumably from Nanabush, the keeper of the sacred fire. He asserted that a certain belt, said to make those invulnerable who touched it whilst in his hands, was composed of beans which had grown from his flesh; and this belt was circulated far and wide by Indian runners, finding its way even to the Red River of the North. These, coupled with his oratory and mummeries, greatly enhanced an influence which was possibly added to by a gloomy and saturnine countenance, made more forbidding still by the loss of an eye. Unfortunately for Tecumseh's enterprise, the Prophet was more bent upon personal notoriety than upon the welfare of his people; and, whilst professing the latter, indulged his ambition, in Tecumseh's absence, by a precipitate attack upon Harrison's force on the Tippecanoe. His defeat discredited his assumption of supernatural powers, led to distrust and defection, and wrecked Tecumseh's plan of independent action. But the protection of his people was Tecumseh's sole ambition; and, true statesman that he was, he joined the British at Amherstburg (Fort Malden), in Upper Canada, with a large force, and in the summer of 1812 began that series of services to the British interest which has made his name a household word in Canada, and endeared him to the Canadian heart.—FromAuthor's Note.
[Q]These scenes are enacted at the "Prophet's Town," an Indian village, situated at the junction of the Tippecanoe river with the Wabash, the latter a tributary of the Ohio. Tecumseh is gone on a mission to the Southern Indians to induce them to unite in a confederation of all the Indian tribes, leaving his brother, the Prophet, in charge of the tribes already assembled, having strictly enjoined upon him not to quarrel with the Americans, or Long-Knives, as the Indians called them, during his absence. General Harrison, Governor of Indiana, and commander of the American forces, having learned of Tecumseh's plans, marches to attack the Prophet; but the latter, pretending to be friendly, sends out some chiefs to meet Harrison. By the advice of these chiefs, the Americans encamp on an elevated plateau, near the Prophet's Town,—"a very fitting place," to the mind of Harrison's officers, but to the practised eye of Harrison himself, also well fitted for a night attack by the Indians. He, therefore, very wisely makes all necessary preparations for defence against any sudden attack. Tecumseh has left behind him, under the protection of the Prophet, his wife, Mamatee, and his niece, Iena. He is accompanied on his mission by Lefroy, an English poet-artist, "enamoured of Indian life, and in love with Iena." The Prophet, who is hostile to Lefroy, intends to marry Iena to Tarhay, one of his chiefs, but Mamatee has gone to intercede with her brother-in-law for Iena, and, if possible, to turn him from his purpose.
[R]Tecumseh had long foreseen that nothing but combination could prevent the encroachments of the whites upon the Ohio, and had long been successfully endeavoring to bring about a union of the tribes who inhabited its valley. The Fort Wayne treaties gave a wider scope to his design, and he now originated his great scheme of a federation of the entire red race. In pursuance of this object, his exertions, hitherto very arduous, became almost superhuman. He made repeated journeys, and visited almost every tribe from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes, and even north of them, and far to the west of the Mississippi. In order to further his scheme he took advantage of his brother's growing reputation as a prophet, and allowed him to gain a powerful hold upon the superstitious minds of his people by his preaching and predictions. The Prophet professed to have obtained from the Great Spirit a magic bowl, which possessed miraculous qualities; also a mystic torch, presumably from Nanabush, the keeper of the sacred fire. He asserted that a certain belt, said to make those invulnerable who touched it whilst in his hands, was composed of beans which had grown from his flesh; and this belt was circulated far and wide by Indian runners, finding its way even to the Red River of the North. These, coupled with his oratory and mummeries, greatly enhanced an influence which was possibly added to by a gloomy and saturnine countenance, made more forbidding still by the loss of an eye. Unfortunately for Tecumseh's enterprise, the Prophet was more bent upon personal notoriety than upon the welfare of his people; and, whilst professing the latter, indulged his ambition, in Tecumseh's absence, by a precipitate attack upon Harrison's force on the Tippecanoe. His defeat discredited his assumption of supernatural powers, led to distrust and defection, and wrecked Tecumseh's plan of independent action. But the protection of his people was Tecumseh's sole ambition; and, true statesman that he was, he joined the British at Amherstburg (Fort Malden), in Upper Canada, with a large force, and in the summer of 1812 began that series of services to the British interest which has made his name a household word in Canada, and endeared him to the Canadian heart.—FromAuthor's Note.
"Outin the meadows the young grass springs,Shivering with sap," said the larks, "and weShoot into air with our strong young wingsSpirally up over level and lea;Come, O Swallows, and fly with usNow that horizons are luminous!Evening and morning the world of light,Spreading and kindling, is infinite!"Far away, by the sea in the south,The hills of olive and slopes of fernWhiten and glow in the sun's long drouth,Under the heavens that beam and burn;And all the swallows were gather'd thereFlitting about in the fragrant air,And heard no sound from the larks, but flewFlashing under the blinding blue.Out of the depths of their soft rich throatsLanguidly fluted the thrushes, and said:"Musical thought in the mild air floats,Spring is coming and winter is dead!Come, O Swallows, and stir the air,For the buds are all bursting unaware,And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees longTo hear the sound of your low sweet song."Over the roofs of the white Algiers,Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar,Flitted the swallows, and not one hearsThe call of the thrushes from far, from far;Sigh'd the thrushes; then, all at once,Broke out singing the old sweet tones,Singing the bridal of sap and shoot,The tree's slow life between root and fruit.But just when the dingles of April flowersShine with the earliest daffodils,When, before sunrise, the cold clear hoursGleam with a promise that noon fulfils,—Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried,Perch'd on a spray by a rivulet-side,"Swallows, O Swallows, come back againTo swoop and herald the April rain."And something awoke in the slumbering heartOf the alien birds in their African air,And they paused, and alighted, and twitter'd apart,And met in the broad white dreamy square;And the sad slave woman, who lifted upFrom the fountain her broad-lipp'd earthen cup,Said to herself, with a weary sigh,"To-morrow the swallows will northward fly!"
"Outin the meadows the young grass springs,Shivering with sap," said the larks, "and weShoot into air with our strong young wingsSpirally up over level and lea;Come, O Swallows, and fly with usNow that horizons are luminous!Evening and morning the world of light,Spreading and kindling, is infinite!"
Far away, by the sea in the south,The hills of olive and slopes of fernWhiten and glow in the sun's long drouth,Under the heavens that beam and burn;And all the swallows were gather'd thereFlitting about in the fragrant air,And heard no sound from the larks, but flewFlashing under the blinding blue.
Out of the depths of their soft rich throatsLanguidly fluted the thrushes, and said:"Musical thought in the mild air floats,Spring is coming and winter is dead!Come, O Swallows, and stir the air,For the buds are all bursting unaware,And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees longTo hear the sound of your low sweet song."
Over the roofs of the white Algiers,Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar,Flitted the swallows, and not one hearsThe call of the thrushes from far, from far;Sigh'd the thrushes; then, all at once,Broke out singing the old sweet tones,Singing the bridal of sap and shoot,The tree's slow life between root and fruit.
But just when the dingles of April flowersShine with the earliest daffodils,When, before sunrise, the cold clear hoursGleam with a promise that noon fulfils,—Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried,Perch'd on a spray by a rivulet-side,"Swallows, O Swallows, come back againTo swoop and herald the April rain."
And something awoke in the slumbering heartOf the alien birds in their African air,And they paused, and alighted, and twitter'd apart,And met in the broad white dreamy square;And the sad slave woman, who lifted upFrom the fountain her broad-lipp'd earthen cup,Said to herself, with a weary sigh,"To-morrow the swallows will northward fly!"
Allnight I watch'd, awake, for morning:At last the East grew all aflame,The birds for welcome sang, or warning,And with their singing morning came.Along the gold-green heavens driftedPale wandering souls that shun the light,Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted,Had beat the bars of Heaven all night.These cluster'd round the Moon; but higherA troop of shining spirits went,Who were not made of wind or fire,But some divine dream-element.Some held the Light, while those remainingShook out their harvest-color'd wings,A faint unusual music raining(Whose sound was Light) on earthly things.They sang, and as a mighty riverTheir voices wash'd the night away:From East to West ran one white shiver,And waxen strong their song was Day.
Allnight I watch'd, awake, for morning:At last the East grew all aflame,The birds for welcome sang, or warning,And with their singing morning came.
Along the gold-green heavens driftedPale wandering souls that shun the light,Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted,Had beat the bars of Heaven all night.
These cluster'd round the Moon; but higherA troop of shining spirits went,Who were not made of wind or fire,But some divine dream-element.
Some held the Light, while those remainingShook out their harvest-color'd wings,A faint unusual music raining(Whose sound was Light) on earthly things.
They sang, and as a mighty riverTheir voices wash'd the night away:From East to West ran one white shiver,And waxen strong their song was Day.
Andshall I weep that Love's no more,And magnify his reign?Sure never mortal man beforeWould have his grief again.Farewell the long-continued ache,The days a-dream, the nights awake,I will rejoice and merry make,And never more complain.King Love is dead and gone for aye,Who ruled with might and main,For with a bitter word one day,I found my tyrant slain,And he in Heathenesse was bred,Nor ever was baptized, 'tis said,Nor is of any creed, and deadCan never rise again.
Andshall I weep that Love's no more,And magnify his reign?Sure never mortal man beforeWould have his grief again.Farewell the long-continued ache,The days a-dream, the nights awake,I will rejoice and merry make,And never more complain.
King Love is dead and gone for aye,Who ruled with might and main,For with a bitter word one day,I found my tyrant slain,And he in Heathenesse was bred,Nor ever was baptized, 'tis said,Nor is of any creed, and deadCan never rise again.
Rulingwith an iron handO'er the intermediate land'Twixt the plains of rich completeness,And the realms of budding sweetness,Winter! from thy crystal throne,With a keenness all thy ownDartest thou, through gleaming air,O'er the glorious barren glareOf thy sunlit wildernesses,Thine undazzled level glances,Where thy minions' silver tressesStream among their icy lances;While thy universal breathing,Frozen to a radiant swathingFor the trees, their bareness hides,And upon their sunward sidesShines and flushes rosilyTo the chill pink morning sky.Skilful artists thou employest,And in chastest beauty joyest—Forms most delicate, pure, and clear,Frost-caught starbeams fallen sheerIn the night, and woven hereIn jewel-fretted tapestries.But what magic melodies,As in the bord'ring realms are throbbing,Hast thou, Winter?—Liquid sobbingBrooks, and brawling waterfalls,Whose responsive-voicèd callsClothe with harmony the hills,Gurgling meadow-threading rills,Lakelets' lisping wavelets lappingRound a flock of wild ducks napping,And the rapturous-noted wooings,And the molten-throated cooings,Of the amorous multitudesFlashing through the dusky woods,When a veering wind hath blownA glare of sudden daylight down?—Naught of these!—And fewer notesHath the wind alone that floatsOver naked trees and snows;Half its minstrelsy it owesTo its orchestra of leaves.Ay! weak the meshes music weavesFor thy snarèd soul's delight,'Less, when thou dost lie at night'Neath the star-sown heavens bright,To thy sin-unchokèd earsSome dim harmonies may pierceFrom the high-consulting spheres:'Less the silent sunrise singLike a vibrant silver stringWhen its prison'd splendors firstO'er the crusted snow-fields burst.But thy days the silence keep,Save for grosbeaks' feeble cheep,Or for snow-birds' busy twitterWhen thy breath is very bitter.So my spirit often achethFor the melodies it lacketh'Neath thy sway, or cannot hearFor its mortal-cloakèd ear.And full thirstily it longethFor the beauty that belongethTo the Autumn's ripe fulfilling;—Heapèd orchard-baskets spilling'Neath the laughter-shaken trees;Fields of buckwheat full of bees,Girt with ancient groves of firShod with berried juniper;Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves;Heavy-headed nodding sheaves;Clumps of luscious blackberries;Purple-cluster'd traceriesOf the cottage climbing-vines;Scarlet-fruited eglantines;Maple forests all aflameWhen thy sharp-tongued legates came.Ruler with an iron handO'er an intermediate land!Glad am I thy realm is border'dBy the plains more richly order'd,—Stock'd with sweeter-glowing forms,—Where the prison'd brightness warmsIn lush crimsons through the leaves,And a gorgeous legend weaves.
Rulingwith an iron handO'er the intermediate land'Twixt the plains of rich completeness,And the realms of budding sweetness,Winter! from thy crystal throne,With a keenness all thy ownDartest thou, through gleaming air,O'er the glorious barren glareOf thy sunlit wildernesses,Thine undazzled level glances,Where thy minions' silver tressesStream among their icy lances;While thy universal breathing,Frozen to a radiant swathingFor the trees, their bareness hides,And upon their sunward sidesShines and flushes rosilyTo the chill pink morning sky.Skilful artists thou employest,And in chastest beauty joyest—Forms most delicate, pure, and clear,Frost-caught starbeams fallen sheerIn the night, and woven hereIn jewel-fretted tapestries.But what magic melodies,As in the bord'ring realms are throbbing,Hast thou, Winter?—Liquid sobbingBrooks, and brawling waterfalls,Whose responsive-voicèd callsClothe with harmony the hills,Gurgling meadow-threading rills,Lakelets' lisping wavelets lappingRound a flock of wild ducks napping,And the rapturous-noted wooings,And the molten-throated cooings,Of the amorous multitudesFlashing through the dusky woods,When a veering wind hath blownA glare of sudden daylight down?—Naught of these!—And fewer notesHath the wind alone that floatsOver naked trees and snows;Half its minstrelsy it owesTo its orchestra of leaves.Ay! weak the meshes music weavesFor thy snarèd soul's delight,'Less, when thou dost lie at night'Neath the star-sown heavens bright,To thy sin-unchokèd earsSome dim harmonies may pierceFrom the high-consulting spheres:'Less the silent sunrise singLike a vibrant silver stringWhen its prison'd splendors firstO'er the crusted snow-fields burst.But thy days the silence keep,Save for grosbeaks' feeble cheep,Or for snow-birds' busy twitterWhen thy breath is very bitter.
So my spirit often achethFor the melodies it lacketh'Neath thy sway, or cannot hearFor its mortal-cloakèd ear.And full thirstily it longethFor the beauty that belongethTo the Autumn's ripe fulfilling;—Heapèd orchard-baskets spilling'Neath the laughter-shaken trees;Fields of buckwheat full of bees,Girt with ancient groves of firShod with berried juniper;Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves;Heavy-headed nodding sheaves;Clumps of luscious blackberries;Purple-cluster'd traceriesOf the cottage climbing-vines;Scarlet-fruited eglantines;Maple forests all aflameWhen thy sharp-tongued legates came.
Ruler with an iron handO'er an intermediate land!Glad am I thy realm is border'dBy the plains more richly order'd,—Stock'd with sweeter-glowing forms,—Where the prison'd brightness warmsIn lush crimsons through the leaves,And a gorgeous legend weaves.
Thewind, the wind where Erie plunged,Blew, blew nor'-east from land to land;The wandering schooner dipp'd and lunged,—Long Point was close at hand.Long Point—a swampy island-slant,Where, busy in their grassy homes,Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt,And musk-rats build their domes;Where gulls and eagles rest at need,Where either side, by lake or sound,Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed,And mallard ducks abound.The lowering night shut out the sight:Careen'd the vessel, pitch'd and veer'd,—Raved, raved the wind with main and might;The sunken reef she near'd.She pounded over, lurch'd, and sank;Between two sand-bars settling fast,Her leaky hull the waters drank,And she had sail'd her last.Into the rigging, quick as thought,Captain and mate and sailors sprung,Clamber'd for life, some vantage caught,And there all night they swung.And it was cold—oh, it was cold!The pinching cold was like a vise:Spoondrift flew freezing,—fold on foldIt coated them with ice.Now when the dawn began to break,Light up the sand-path drench'd and brown,To fill her bucket from the lake,Came Mother Becker down.From where her cabin crown'd the bankCame Abigail Becker tall and strong:She dipp'd, and lo! a broken plankCame rocking close along!She pois'd her glass with anxious ken:The schooner's top she spied from far,And there she counted seven menThat clung to mast and spar.And oh, the gale! the rout and roar!The blinding drift, the mounting wave,A good half-mile from wreck to shore,With seven men to save!Sped Mother Becker: "Children! wake!A ship's gone down! they're needing me!Your father's off on shore; the lakeIs just a raging sea!"Get wood, cook fish, make ready all."She snatch'd her stores, she fled with haste,In cotton gown and tatter'd shawl,Barefoot across the waste,Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands,And nearer, nearer, full in view,Went shouting through her hollow'd hands:"Courage! we'll get you through!"Ran to and fro, made cheery signs,Her bonfire lighted, steeped her tea,Brought drift-wood, watch'd Canadian linesHer husband's boat to see.Cold, cold it was—oh, it was cold!The bitter cold made watching vain:With ice the channel laboring roll'd,—No skiff could stand the strain.On all that isle, from outer swellTo strait between the landings shut,Was never place where man might dwell,Save trapper Becker's hut.And it was twelve and one and two,And it was three o'clock and more.She call'd: "Come on! there's nought to do,But leap and swim ashore!"Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear:She waded in the shallow sea;She waved her hands, made signals clear,"Swim! swim, and trust to me!""My men," the captain cried, "I'll try:The woman's judgment may be right;For, swim or sink, seven men must dieIf here we swing to-night."Far out he mark'd the gathering surge;Across the bar he watch'd it pour,Let go, and on its topmost vergeCame riding in to shore.It struck the breaker's foamy track,—Majestic wave on wave uphurl'd,Went grandly toppling, tumbling back,As loath to flood the world.There blindly whirling, shorn of strength,The captain drifted, sure to drown;Dragg'd seaward half a cable's length,Like sinking lead went down.Ah, well for him that on the strandHad Mother Becker waited long!And well for him her grasping handAnd grappling arm were strong!And well for him that wind and sun,And daily toil for scanty gains,Had made such daring blood to runWithin such generous veins!For what to do but plunge and swim?Out on the sinking billow cast,She toil'd, she dived, she groped for him,She found and clutch'd him fast.She climb'd the reef, she brought him up,She laid him gasping on the sands;Built high the fire and fill'd the cup,—Stood up and waved her hands!Oh, life is dear! The mate leap'd in."I know," the captain said, "right well,Not twice can any woman winA soul from yonder hell."I'll start and meet him in the wave.""Keep back!" she bade: "what strength have you?And I shall have you both to save,—Must work to pull you through!"But out he went. Up shallow sweepsRaced the long white-caps, comb on comb:The wind, the wind that lash'd the deeps,Far, far it blew the foam.The frozen foam went scudding by,—Before the wind, a seething throng,The waves, the waves came towering high,They flung the mate along.The waves came towering high and white.They burst in clouds of flying spray:There mate and captain sank from sight,And, clinching, roll'd away.Oh, Mother Becker, seas are dread,Their treacherous paths are deep and blind!But widows twain shall mourn their deadIf thou art slow to find.She sought them near, she sought them far,Three fathoms down she gripp'd them tight;With both together up the barShe stagger'd into sight.Beside the fire her burdens fell:She paus'd the cheering draught to pour,Then waved her hands: "All's well! all's well!Come on! swim! swim ashore!"Sure, life is dear, and men are brave:They came,—they dropp'd from mast and spar;And who but she could breast the wave,And dive beyond the bar?Dark grew the sky from east to west,And darker, darker grew the world:Each man from off the breaker's crestTo gloomier deeps was hurl'd.And still the gale went shrieking on,And still the wrecking fury grew;And still the woman, worn and wan,Those gates of Death went through,—As Christ were walking on the waves,And heavenly radiance shone about,—All fearless trod that gulf of gravesAnd bore the sailors out.Down came the night, but far and bright,Despite the wind and flying foam,The bonfire flamed to give them lightTo trapper Becker's home.Oh, safety after wreck is sweet!And sweet is rest in hut or hall:One story Life and Death repeat,—God's mercy over all.Next day men heard, put out from shore,Cross'd channel-ice, burst in to findSeven gallant fellows sick and sore,A tender nurse and kind;Shook hands, wept, laugh'd, were crazy-glad;Cried: "Never yet, on land or sea,Poor dying, drowning sailors hadA better friend than she."Billows may tumble, winds may roar,Strong hands the wreck'd from Death may snatch:But never, never, nevermoreThis deed shall mortal match!"Dear Mother Becker dropp'd her head,She blush'd as girls when lovers woo:"I have not done a thing," she said,"More than I ought to do."
Thewind, the wind where Erie plunged,Blew, blew nor'-east from land to land;The wandering schooner dipp'd and lunged,—Long Point was close at hand.
Long Point—a swampy island-slant,Where, busy in their grassy homes,Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt,And musk-rats build their domes;
Where gulls and eagles rest at need,Where either side, by lake or sound,Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed,And mallard ducks abound.
The lowering night shut out the sight:Careen'd the vessel, pitch'd and veer'd,—Raved, raved the wind with main and might;The sunken reef she near'd.
She pounded over, lurch'd, and sank;Between two sand-bars settling fast,Her leaky hull the waters drank,And she had sail'd her last.
Into the rigging, quick as thought,Captain and mate and sailors sprung,Clamber'd for life, some vantage caught,And there all night they swung.
And it was cold—oh, it was cold!The pinching cold was like a vise:Spoondrift flew freezing,—fold on foldIt coated them with ice.
Now when the dawn began to break,Light up the sand-path drench'd and brown,To fill her bucket from the lake,Came Mother Becker down.
From where her cabin crown'd the bankCame Abigail Becker tall and strong:She dipp'd, and lo! a broken plankCame rocking close along!
She pois'd her glass with anxious ken:The schooner's top she spied from far,And there she counted seven menThat clung to mast and spar.
And oh, the gale! the rout and roar!The blinding drift, the mounting wave,A good half-mile from wreck to shore,With seven men to save!
Sped Mother Becker: "Children! wake!A ship's gone down! they're needing me!Your father's off on shore; the lakeIs just a raging sea!
"Get wood, cook fish, make ready all."She snatch'd her stores, she fled with haste,In cotton gown and tatter'd shawl,Barefoot across the waste,
Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands,And nearer, nearer, full in view,Went shouting through her hollow'd hands:"Courage! we'll get you through!"
Ran to and fro, made cheery signs,Her bonfire lighted, steeped her tea,Brought drift-wood, watch'd Canadian linesHer husband's boat to see.
Cold, cold it was—oh, it was cold!The bitter cold made watching vain:With ice the channel laboring roll'd,—No skiff could stand the strain.
On all that isle, from outer swellTo strait between the landings shut,Was never place where man might dwell,Save trapper Becker's hut.
And it was twelve and one and two,And it was three o'clock and more.She call'd: "Come on! there's nought to do,But leap and swim ashore!"
Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear:She waded in the shallow sea;She waved her hands, made signals clear,"Swim! swim, and trust to me!"
"My men," the captain cried, "I'll try:The woman's judgment may be right;For, swim or sink, seven men must dieIf here we swing to-night."
Far out he mark'd the gathering surge;Across the bar he watch'd it pour,Let go, and on its topmost vergeCame riding in to shore.
It struck the breaker's foamy track,—Majestic wave on wave uphurl'd,Went grandly toppling, tumbling back,As loath to flood the world.
There blindly whirling, shorn of strength,The captain drifted, sure to drown;Dragg'd seaward half a cable's length,Like sinking lead went down.
Ah, well for him that on the strandHad Mother Becker waited long!And well for him her grasping handAnd grappling arm were strong!
And well for him that wind and sun,And daily toil for scanty gains,Had made such daring blood to runWithin such generous veins!
For what to do but plunge and swim?Out on the sinking billow cast,She toil'd, she dived, she groped for him,She found and clutch'd him fast.
She climb'd the reef, she brought him up,She laid him gasping on the sands;Built high the fire and fill'd the cup,—Stood up and waved her hands!
Oh, life is dear! The mate leap'd in."I know," the captain said, "right well,Not twice can any woman winA soul from yonder hell.
"I'll start and meet him in the wave.""Keep back!" she bade: "what strength have you?And I shall have you both to save,—Must work to pull you through!"
But out he went. Up shallow sweepsRaced the long white-caps, comb on comb:The wind, the wind that lash'd the deeps,Far, far it blew the foam.
The frozen foam went scudding by,—Before the wind, a seething throng,The waves, the waves came towering high,They flung the mate along.
The waves came towering high and white.They burst in clouds of flying spray:There mate and captain sank from sight,And, clinching, roll'd away.
Oh, Mother Becker, seas are dread,Their treacherous paths are deep and blind!But widows twain shall mourn their deadIf thou art slow to find.
She sought them near, she sought them far,Three fathoms down she gripp'd them tight;With both together up the barShe stagger'd into sight.
Beside the fire her burdens fell:She paus'd the cheering draught to pour,Then waved her hands: "All's well! all's well!Come on! swim! swim ashore!"
Sure, life is dear, and men are brave:They came,—they dropp'd from mast and spar;And who but she could breast the wave,And dive beyond the bar?
Dark grew the sky from east to west,And darker, darker grew the world:Each man from off the breaker's crestTo gloomier deeps was hurl'd.
And still the gale went shrieking on,And still the wrecking fury grew;And still the woman, worn and wan,Those gates of Death went through,—
As Christ were walking on the waves,And heavenly radiance shone about,—All fearless trod that gulf of gravesAnd bore the sailors out.
Down came the night, but far and bright,Despite the wind and flying foam,The bonfire flamed to give them lightTo trapper Becker's home.
Oh, safety after wreck is sweet!And sweet is rest in hut or hall:One story Life and Death repeat,—God's mercy over all.
Next day men heard, put out from shore,Cross'd channel-ice, burst in to findSeven gallant fellows sick and sore,A tender nurse and kind;
Shook hands, wept, laugh'd, were crazy-glad;Cried: "Never yet, on land or sea,Poor dying, drowning sailors hadA better friend than she.
"Billows may tumble, winds may roar,Strong hands the wreck'd from Death may snatch:But never, never, nevermoreThis deed shall mortal match!"
Dear Mother Becker dropp'd her head,She blush'd as girls when lovers woo:"I have not done a thing," she said,"More than I ought to do."