Summer and winter spent themselves again,
  The rock-doves in their season bred, the cliff
Grew sweet, for every cleft would entertain
  Its tuft of blossom, and the mariner’s skiff,
Early and late, would linger in the bay,
Because the sea was calm and winds away.

The little child about that rocky height,
  Led by her loving hand who gave him birth,
Might wander in the clear unclouded light,
  And take his pastime in the beauteous earth;
Smell the fair flowers in stony cradles swung,
And see God’s happy creatures feed their young.

And once it came to pass, at eventide,
  His mother set him in the cavern door,
And filled his lap with grain, and stood aside
  To watch the circling rock-doves soar, and soar,
Then dip, alight, and run in circling bands,
To take the barley from his open hands.

And even while she stood and gazed at him,
  And his grave father’s eyes upon him dwelt,
They heard the tender voice, and it was dim,
  And seemed full softly in the air to melt;
“Father,” it murmured, “Mother,” dying away,
“Look up, while yet the hours are called to-day.”

“I will,” the father answered, “but not now;”
  The mother said, “Sweet voice, O speak to me
At a convenient season.”  And the brow
  Of the cliff began to quake right fearfully,
There was a rending crash, and there did leap
A riven rock and plunge into the deep.

They said, “A storm is coming;” but they slept
  That night in peace, and thought the storm had passed,
For there was not a cloud to intercept
  The sacred moonlight on the cradle cast;
And to his rocking boat at dawn of day,
With joy of heart the mariner took his way.

But when he mounted up the path at night,
  Foreboding not of trouble or mischance,
His wife came out into the fading light,
  And met him with a serious countenance;
And she broke out in tears and sobbings thick,
“The child is sick, my little child is sick.”

They knelt beside him in the sultry dark,
  And when the moon looked in his face was pale,
And when the red sun, like a burning barque,
  Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wail
Sank deep into their hearts, and piteously
They fell to chiding of their destiny.

The doves unheeded cooed that livelong day,
  Their pretty playmate cared for them no more;
The sea-thrift nodded, wet with glistening spray,
  None gathered it; the long wave washed the shore;
He did not know, nor lift his eyes to trace,
The new fallen shadow in his dwelling-place.

The sultry sun beat on the cliffs all day,
  And hot calm airs slept on the polished sea,
The mournful mother wore her time away,
  Bemoaning of her helpless misery,
Pleading and plaining, till the day was done,
“O look on me, my love, my little one.

“What aileth thee, that thou dost lie and moan? 
  Ah would that I might bear it in thy stead!”
The father made not his forebodings known,
  But gazed, and in his secret soul he said,
“I may have sinned, on sin waits punishment,
But as for him, sweet blameless innocent,