Sentimental reciter/The Suicide

THE SUICIDE.

She left her Infant on the Sunday morn—
A creature doom’d to sin—in sorrow born;
She came not home to share our humble meal,
Her father thinking what his child might feel
From his hard sentence. Still she came not home.
The night grew dark, and yet she was not come;
The east wind roar’d, the sea returned the sound,
And the rain fell, as if the world were drown’d;
There were no lights without, and my goodman
To kindness frightened—with a groan began
To talk of Ruth, and pray—and then he took
The Bible down, and read the holy book:
For he had learning, and when that was done
He sat in silence.-—Whither could we run,
He said—and then rush’d frightened from the door,
For we could bear our own conceits no more.
We call’d our neighbours—there she had not been:
We met some wanderers—our’s they had not seen;
We hurried o’er the beach, both north and south,
Then joined and hurried to our haven’s mouth,
Where rush’d the falling waters wildly out;
I scarcely heard the goodman’s fearful shout,
Who saw a something on the billows’ side,
And Heaven have mercy on our sins, he cried,
It is my child—and to the present hour
So he believes that spirits have the power.

And she was gone—the waters wide and deep
Roll’d o’er her body as she lay asleep.
She heard no more the angry waves and wind,
She heard no more the threat'nings of mankind;
Wrapt in dark weeds, the refuge of the storm,
To the hard rock was borne her comely form.

But oh! what storm was in that mind! what strife,
That could compel her to lay down her life!
For she was seen within the sea to wade
By one at a distance, when she first had pray’d:

Then to a rock within the hither shoal,
Softly, and with a fearful step she stole!
Then, when she gain’d it, on the top she stood
A moment still—and dropp’d into the flood!
Crabbe