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THE MARY ROSS
Back chased the blessed dark—but, O!
I'd seen! Aye, all too clear
I see her still—the piteous mouth,
The great eyes fixt with fear.
Not an hour since upon my knee
Her good-night pranks were play’d,
And now—to face Death . . . and alone . . .
God! and afraid? “Afraid!”
Oh, I cried from the trough—I promised her
The help that I could not give.
The wind drove back my words—the waves
Drove on their fugitive.
“Somebody save me!” And again
For one mad second’s space,
’Mid the rushing rack the quiet moon,
’Mid the wide void, that face!
And she saw me! Great Heaven, she smiled!
Stretch’d out her arms and cried,
“Save me!” and half my name—and then . . .
Then she was pacified.
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