The Land of Song Volume Ii Part 26

"Hast gold in hand? then light the land, It 'longs to thee and me; But let alone the deadly rock In G.o.d Almighty's sea."

Yet said he, "Nay,--I must away, On the rock to set my feet; My debts are paid, my will I made, Or ever I did thee greet.

"If I must die, then let me die By the rock and not elsewhere; If I may live, Oh let me live To mount my lighthouse stair."

The old Mayor looked him in the face, And answered, "Have thy way; Thy heart is stout, as if round about It was braced with an iron stay:

"Have thy will, mercer! choose thy men, Put off from the storm-rid sh.o.r.e; G.o.d with thee be, or I shall see Thy face and theirs no more."

Heavily plunged the breaking wave, And foam flew up the lea; Morning and even the drifted snow Fell into the dark gray sea.

Winstanley chose him men and gear; He said, "My time I waste,"

For the seas ran seething up the sh.o.r.e, And the wrack drave on in haste.

But twenty days he waited and more, Pacing the strand alone, Or ever he sat his manly foot On the rock,--the Eddystone.

Then he and the sea began their strife, And worked with power and might; Whatever the man reared up by day The sea broke down by night.

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, He sailed to sh.o.r.e at flow; And at his side, by that same tide, Came bar and beam also.

"Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, "Or thou wilt rue the day."-- "Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, "But the rock will have its way.

"For all his looks that are so stout, And his speeches brave and fair, He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, But he'll build no lighthouse there."

In fine weather and foul weather The rock his arts did flout, Through the long days and the short days, Till all that year ran out.

With fine weather and foul weather Another year came in; "To take his wage," the workmen said, "We almost count a sin."

Now March was gone, came April in, And a sea fog settled down, And forth sailed he on a gla.s.sy sea, He sailed from Plymouth town.

With men and stores he put to sea, As he was wont to do: They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint,-- A ghostly craft and crew.

And the sea fog lay and waxed alway, For a long eight days and more; "G.o.d help our men," quoth the women then "For they bide long from sh.o.r.e."

They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread; "Where may our mariners be?"

But the brooding fog lay soft as down Over the quiet sea.

A Scottish schooner made the port, The thirteenth day at e'en; "As I am a man," the captain cried, "A strange sight I have seen:

"And a strange sound heard, my masters all, At sea, in the fog and the rain, Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low, Then loud, then low again.

"And a stately house one instant showed, Through a rift on the vessel's lea; What manner of creatures may be those That build upon the sea."

Then sighed the folk, "The Lord be praised!"

And they flocked to the sh.o.r.e amain: All over the Hoe that livelong night, Many stood out in the rain.

It ceased; and the red sun reared his head, And the rolling fog did flee; And, lo! in the offing faint and far Winstanley's house at sea!

In fair weather with mirth and cheer The stately tower uprose; In foul weather with hunger and cold They were content to close;

Till up the stair Winstanley went, To fire the wick afar; And Plymouth in the silent night Looked out and saw her star.

Winstanley set his foot ash.o.r.e; Said he, "My work is done; I hold it strong to last as long As aught beneath the sun.

"But if it fail, as fail it may, Borne down with ruin and rout, Another than I shall rear it high, And brace the girders stout.

"A better than I shall rear it high, For now the way is plain; And though I were dead," Winstanley said, "The light would shine again.

"Yet were I fain still to remain, Watch in my tower to keep, And tend my light in the stormiest night That ever did move the deep;

"And if it stood, why then 'twere good, Amid their tremulous stirs, To count each stroke when the mad waves broke, For cheers of mariners.

"But if it fell, then this were well, That I should with it fall; Since, for my part, I have built my heart In the courses of its wall.

"Ay! I were fain, long to remain, Watch in my tower to keep, And tend my light in the stormiest night That ever did move the deep."

With that Winstanley went his way, And left the rock renowned, And summer and winter his pilot star Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound.

But it fell out, fell out at last, That he would put to sea, To scan once more his lighthouse tower On the rock o' destiny.

And the winds broke, and the storm broke, And wrecks came plunging in; None in the town that night lay down Or sleep or rest to win.

The great mad waves were rolling graves, And each flung up its dead; The seething flow was white below, And black the sky o'erhead.

And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn, Broke on the trembling town, And men looked south to the harbor mouth, The lighthouse tower was down.

Down in the deep, where he doth sleep Who made it shine afar, And then in the night that drowned its light, Set, with his pilot star.

Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms At Westminster they show; The brave and the great lie there in state; Winstanley lieth low.

JEAN INGELOW.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE STORM.

The tempest rages wild and high, The waves lift up their voice and cry Fierce answers to the angry sky,-- _Miserere Domine._

Through the black night and driving rain, A ship is struggling, all in vain, To live upon the stormy main;-- _Miserere Domine._

The thunders roar, the lightnings glare, Vain is it now to strive or dare; A cry goes up of great despair,-- _Miserere Domine._

The stormy voices of the main, The moaning wind and pelting rain Beat on the nursery window pane:-- _Miserere Domine._

Warm curtained was the little bed, Soft pillowed was the little head; "The storm will wake the child," they said:-- _Miserere Domine._