She was the prize of many a toilsome year,
And hardwon wages, on the perilous sea—­
Of savings ever since the shipboy’s tear
Was shed for home, that lay beyond the lee;—­
She was purveyor for his other dear
Mary, and for the infant yet to be
Fruit of their married loves.  These made him dote
Upon the homely beauties of his boat,

Whose pitch-black hull roll’d darkly on the wave,
No gayer than one single stripe of blue
Could make her swarthy sides.  She seem’d a slave,
A negro among boats—­that only knew
Hardship and rugged toil—­no pennons brave
Flaunted upon the mast—­but oft a few
Dark dripping jackets flutter’d to the air,
Ensigns of hardihood and toilsome care.

And when she ventured for the deep, she spread
A tawny sail against the sunbright sky,
Dark as a cloud that journeys overhead—­
But then those tawny wings were stretch’d to fly
Across the wide sea desert for the bread
Of babes and mothers—­many an anxious eye
Dwelt on her course, and many a fervent pray’r
Invoked the Heavens to protect and spare.

Where is she now?  The secrets of the deep
Are dark and hidden from the human ken;
Only the sea-bird saw the surges sweep
Over the bark of the devoted Ben,—­
Meanwhile a widow sobs and orphans weep,
And sighs are heard from weatherbeaten men,
Dark sunburnt men, uncouth and rude and hairy,
While loungers idly ask, “Where is the Mary?”

THE LADY’S DREAM.

The lady lay in her bed,
  Her couch so warm and soft,
But her sleep was restless and broken still;
  For turning often and oft
From side to side, she mutter’d and moan’d,
  And toss’d her arms aloft.

At last she startled up,
  And gazed on the vacant air,
With a look of awe, as if she saw
  Some dreadful phantom there—­
And then in the pillow she buried her face
  From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook,
  Her terror was so extreme;
And the light that fell on the broider’d quilt
  Kept a tremulous gleam;
And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried:—­
  “Oh me! that awful dream”!

“That weary, weary walk,
  In the churchyard’s dismal ground! 
And those horrible things, with shady wings,
  That came and flitted round,—­
Death, death, and nothing but death,
  In every sight and sound!

“And oh! those maidens young,
  Who wrought in that dreary room,
With figures drooping and spectres thin,
  And cheeks without a bloom;—­
And the Voice that cried, ’For the pomp of pride,
  We haste to an early tomb!

“’For the pomp and pleasure of Pride,
  We toil like Afric slaves,
And only to earn a home at last,
  Where yonder cypress waves;’—­
And then they pointed—­I never saw
  A ground so full of graves!