Poems for the Sea/Laura
LAURA.
Laura was fair, and of a tender heart,
And lov'd a son of Neptune. Nought to her
That toils of Ocean bronz'd his brow, or gave
A roughness to his manners, for she priz'd
His generous nature,—full of noble thoughts,
And warm devotedness to every friend.
Cold winter fled away, and gentle Spring
From its low bed the earliest snow-drop call'd,
And then the holy marriage-vow they spake,
And were made one. Yet scarce the fleeting moon
Had marked her change of crescent, orb and wane,
Ere came the parting hour: for he was bound
Upon a three years' cruise.
He cheer'd his bride,
With promises to tempt the sea no more,
But after this, one farewell voyage, to rear
A cottage mid their native hills, where all
Her favorite flowers might grow, and dwell content
Forever at her side.
So, forth he went,
The dauntless Captain of a hardy crew,
To barb the monarch whale, mid arctic floods.
'Twere hard to tell, how loneliness and woe,
Chill'd her young breast, and how thro' midnight storms
She sleepless wept—or from some broken dream
Of shipwreck, and the swimmer spent with toil,
Sprang up, affrighted.
But with that good sense
Which marks a well-train'd mind, she quell'd her grief
By industry, and kindliest sympathies
In other's woe. Still for her parent's weal,
Both hand and heart were busy,—by the bed
Of the poor sick she sate, or fed the young
With dews of knowledge; for the love of books
And the pure faith of Christ, refined her soul.
Thus, well-employ'd, tho' with a tardy flight
Revolv'd the months and years,—while anxious care
For the long absent husband, gave a cast
Of pensive beauty to her youthful brow.
At length, the blessed telegraph announc'd
His laden ship,—and soon her weary days
Of widowhood, were ended.
But the voice
That to her ear like richest music seem'd,
Announc'd sad tidings. He must tempt again
The treacherous deep.
"Ah, not again! No! No!
Think of your promise, never more to roam!
The humblest cot, where I might work for you,
And hear your voice, and be your comforter,
Is all my heart's ambition."
"Laura, love,
Fain would I place you in a loftier home,
Such as your merits claim.
When first our flag
Was rear'd o'er Mexico,—the land of gold,
I touch'd upon that wondrous coast, and there
Invested all my gains. So, I must go
Thither and be made rich!
Hear me, my wife.
'Tis but this once, and then I shall return
With wealth untold."
"Oh! let us be content,"
She fain had said, but saw it was in vain.
A marble paleness o'er her features stole,
And when it fled, left a fix'd purpose there
To go with him.
Though earnestly he strove
To paint the hardships of the sea, fierce storms,
Privations, nameless dangers, all unfit
For one so delicate; yet still the wife
Clave to her husband.
Mournful kindred spake
Dissuasively of peril, and the pang
Of dire sea-sickness, far away from all
Her sympathising sex; and of the life,
So uncongenial to her gentle soul
In California. But she only said,
"My husband will be there."
Brief space was given
For parting words, and then the tossing deck
With slender foot she trod, resting unmoved
Upon her husband's arm, and her blue eye
Rais'd calmly to the skies.
Tempest and blast
And mountain-billow marked their dreary change
On Ocean's face; yet mid their darkest wrath
'Twas beautiful to see how woman's love
O'ermastered fear, keeping the sunbeam bright
In the transparent heart, to light the brow
With cheering smiles.
Once more upon the land,
Across the dreary wilds of Panama,
The place of skulls, they took their pilgrim way.
Strange hardships came upon them,—rugged men
Fell down and died. Yet still her course she held.
Her strength was in the heart.
The raging main
Again was tempted, ere upon the shore
Of San Francisco, with a motley throng
From every clime, she stood.
Death met her there,
And with cold grasp, his fatal welcome seal'd.
Faintly, her pale lips sigh'd, "The vale is dark,
But Jesus is beside me."
There she lay
Breathless, and wasted as a skeleton,
Yet, on her brow a smile.
Amid the pangs
With which that stricken husband bow'd him down,
Was no remorseful sorrow o'er his haste
To gather gold?—no painful imagery
Of a sweet cottage mid New England's hills
With her, who would have solace'd all his care,
Yet, neath his feet, now found a stranger's grave?