The Face against the Pane.
Mabel, little Mabel,
With her face against the pane, Looks out across the night, And sees the beacon light A trembling in the rain. She hears the sea bird screech, And the breakers on the beach Making moan, making moan, And the wind about the eaves Of the cottage sobs and grieves, And the willow tree is blown To and fro, to and fro,
Till it seems like some old crone
Standing out there all alone with her woe,
Wringing as she stands
Her gaunt and palsied hands;
While Mabel, timid Mabel,
With her face against the pane,
Looks out across the night And sees the beacon light A trembling in the rain.
With her face against the pane,
Looks out across the night
At the beacon in the rain.
The heavens are veined with fire! And the thunder how it rolls!
In the lullings of the storm The solemn church bell tolls For lost souls!
But no sexton sounds the knell; In that belfry old and high, Unseen fingers sway the bell As the wind goes tearing by! How it tolls, for the souls Of the sailors on the sea. God pity them! God pity them! Wherever they may be.
God pity wives and sweethearts Who wait and wait in vain, And pity little Mabel,
With her face against the pane!
A boom! the light house gun, How it echoes, rolls and rolls, 'Tis to warn home bound ships Off the shoals.
See, a rocket cleaves the sky From the fort, a shaft of light! See, it fades, and fading leaves Golden furrows on the night! What makes Mabel's cheek so pale? What makes Mabel's lips so white? Did she see the helpless sail That tossing here and there
Like a feather in the air, Went down and out of sight, Down, down and out of sight?
From a shoal of richest rubies Breaks the morning clear and cold, And the angel on the village spire, Frost touched, is bright as gold. Four ancient fishermen
In the pleasant autumn air, Come toiling up the sands, With something in their hands. Two bodies stark and white, Ah! so ghastly in the light, With sea weed in their hair. O, ancient fishermen Go up to yonder cot! You'll find a little child
With face against the pane,
Who looks toward the beach And looking sees it not. She will never watch again, Never watch and wake at night, For those pretty saintly eyes
Look beyond the stormy skies,
And they see the beacon light.
DEAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! when you sit at the feast. And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me!
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men said;
But this woman, this, who is agonized here,
The east sea, and the west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead!
What's art for a woman? To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees,
And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat; To dream and to dote.
To teach them. It stings there: I made them, indeed, Speak plain the word country, -I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about
And when their eyes flashed. O, my beautiful eyes! I exulted! Nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise When one sits quite alone! then one weeps, then one kneels! God! how the house feels!
At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled
With my kisses, of camp life and glory, and how
They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel bough.
Then was triumph at Turin, Ancona was free, And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet While they cheered in the street.
I bore it! friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy yet remained
To be leant on, and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained.
And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong,
Writ now but in one hand. I was not to faint. One loved me for two; would be with me ere long: And "Viva Italia" he died for, our saint,
"Who forbids our complaint."
My Nanni would add he was safe, and aware
Of a presence that turned off the balls, was imprest It was Guido himself who knew what I could bear And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed To live on for the rest."
On which without pause up the telegraph line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta:
Shot. Tell his mother. Ah! ah! "his," "their" mother, not "mine.' No voice says my mother again to me.
Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that love and that sorrow that reconciles so The Above and Below.
O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'st thro' the dark To the face of thy mother! consider I pray,
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark,
Whose sons not being Christ's, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say!
Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. "Twere imbecile hewing out roads to a wall.
And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son?
Ah! ah! ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then?. When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport
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