Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Sailor's Mother

←

The Funeral

Poems (Southey)
by Robert Southey

The Sailor's Mother

The Witch

→

3898171Poems (Southey) — The Sailor's MotherRobert Southey

ECLOGUE IV.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

WOMAN.Sir for the love of God some small reliefTo a poor woman!TRAVELLER.Whither are you bound?'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs,No house for miles around us, and the wayDreary and wild. The evening wind alreadyMakes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun,Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds,Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night!WOMAN.Aye Sir 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath,Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end,For the way is long before me, and my feet,God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly,If it pleased God, lie down at once and die.TRAVELLER.Nay nay cheer up! a little food and restWill comfort you; and then your journey's endWill make amends for all. You shake your head,And weep. Is it some evil business thenThat leads you from your home?WOMAN.Sir I am goingTo see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurtIn the late action, and in the hospitalDying, I fear me, now.TRAVELLER.Perhaps your fearsMake evil worse. Even if a limb be lostThere may be still enough for comfort left. An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart To keep life warm, and he may live to talk With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude Makes the maim'd sailor happy.WOMAN.'Tis not that— An arm or leg—I could have borne with that.'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing That bursts^[1] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir They do not use on board our English ships It is so wicked! TRAVELLER.Rascals! a mean artOf cruel cowardice, yet all in vain!WOMAN.Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to themFor making use of such unchristian arms.I had a letter from the hospital,He got some friend to write it, and he tells meThat my poor boy has lost his precious eyes,Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever liveTo see this wretched day!—they tell me SirThere is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed'Tis a hard journey that I go uponTo such a dismal end!TRAVELLER.He yet may live.But if the worst should chance, why you must bearThe will of heaven with patience. Were it notSome comfort to reflect your son has fallenFighting his country's cause? and for yourself You will not in unpitied povertyBe left to mourn his loss. Your grateful countryAmid the triumph of her victoryRemember those who paid its price of blood,And with a noble charity relievesThe widow and the orphan.WOMAN.God reward them!God bless them, it will help me in my ageBut Sir! it will not pay me for my child!TRAVELLER.Was he your only child?WOMAN.My only one,The stay and comfort of my widowhood,A dear good boy!—when first he went to seaI felt what it would come to,—something told meI should be childless soon. But tell me SirIf it be true that for a hurt like hisThere is no cure? please God to spare his life Tho' he be blind, yet I should be so thankful!I can remember there was a blind manLived in our village, one from his youth upQuite dark, and yet he was a merry man,And he had none to tend on him so wellAs I would tend my boy!TRAVELLER.Of this be sureHis hurts are look'd to well, and the best helpThe place affords, as rightly is his due,Ever at hand. How happened it he left you?Was a seafaring life his early choice?WOMAN.No Sir! poor fellow—he was wise enoughTo be content at home, and 'twas a homeAs comfortable Sir I even tho' I say it,As any in the country. He was leftA little boy when his poor father died,Just old enough to totter by himselfAnd call his mother's name. We two were all, And as we were not left quite destituteWe bore up well. In the summer time I workedSometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting,And in long winter nights my spinning wheelSeldom stood still. We had kind neighbours tooAnd never felt distress. So he grew upA comely lad and wonderous well disposed;I taught him well; there was not in the parishA child who said his prayers more regular,Or answered readier thro' his catechism.If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessingWe do'nt know what we're born to!TRAVELLER.But how came itHe chose to be a Sailor?WOMAN.You shall hear Sir;As he grew up he used to watch the birdsIn the corn, child's work you know, and easily done.'Tis an idle sort of task, so he built up A little hut of wicker-work and clayUnder the hedge, to shelter him in rain.And then he took for very idlenessTo making traps to catch the plunderers,All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make—Propping a stone to fall and shut them in,Or crush them with its weight, or else a springeSwung on a bough. He made them cleverly—And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleasedTo see the boy so handy. You may guessWhat followed Sir from this unlucky skill.He did what he should not when he was older:I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caughtIn wiring hares at last, and had his choiceThe prison or the ship.TRAVELLER.The choice at leastWas kindly left him, and for broken lawsThis was methinks no heavy punishment. WOMAN.So I was told Sir. And I tried to think so,But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was usedTo sleep at nights soundly and undisturb'd—Now if the wind blew rough, it made me startAnd think of my poor boy tossing aboutUpon the roaring seas. And then I seem'dTo feel that it was hard to take him from meFor such a little fault. But he was wrongOh very wrong—a murrain on his traps!See what they've brought him too!TRAVELLER.Well! well! take comfortHe will be taken care of if he lives;And should you lose your child, this is a countryWhere the brave sailor never leaves a parentTo weep for him in want.WOMAN.Sir I shall wantNo succour long. In the common course of years I soon must be at rest, and 'tis a comfortWhen grief is hard upon me to reflectIt only leads me to that rest the sooner.

↑ The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and wicked.

[1] The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and wicked.

[1]