Poems (Cook)/The Mother who has a Child at Sea

by Eliza Cook

 

THE MOTHER WHO HAS A CHILD AT SEA.

There's an eye that looks on the swelling cloud,
Folding the moon in a funeral shroud,
That watches the stars dying one by one,
Till the whole of heaven's calm light hath gone.
There's an ear that lists to the hissing surge,
As the mourner turns to the anthem dirge:
That eye that ear! oh, whose can they be,
But a mother's who hath a child at sea?

There's a cheek that is getting ashy white,
As the tokens of storm come on with the night;
There's a form that's fix'd at the lattice pane,
To mark how the gloom gathers over the main;
While the yeasty billows lash the shore
With loftier sweep, and hoarser roar.
That cheek that form! oh, whose can they be,
But a mother's who hath a child at sea?

The rushing whistle chills her blood,
As the north wind hurries to scourge the flood:
And the icy shiver spreads to her heart,
As the first red lines of lightning start.
The ocean boils! All mute she stands,
With parted lips and tight-clasp'd hands:
Oh! marvel not at her fear, for she
Is a mother who hath a child at sea!

She conjures up the fearful scene
Of yawning waves, where the ship between,
With striking keel and splinter'd mast,
Is plunging hard and foundering fast.
She sees her boy, with lank, drench'd hair,
Clinging on to the wreck with a cry of despair.
Oh! the vision is maddening. No grief can be
Like a mother's who hath a child at sea.

She presses her brow, she sinks and kneels;
Whilst the blast howls on and the thunder peals;
She breathes not a word, for her passionate prayer
Is too fervent and deep for the lips to bear:
It is pour'd in the long convulsive sigh,
In the straining glance of an upturn'd eye;
And a holier offering cannot he
Than the mother's prayer for her child at sea.

Oh! I love the winds when they spurn control,
For they suit my own bond-hating soul;
I like to hear them sweeping past,
Like the eagle's pinions, free and fast:
But a pang will rise, with sad alloy,
To soften my spirit, and sink my joy,
When I think how dismal their voices must be
To a mother who hath a child at sea.