  Mabel, little Mabel, With 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 face against the pane, Looks out across the night, And sees the Beacon Light A-trembling in the rain. Set the table, maiden Mabel, And make the cabin warm; Is out there in the storm; And your father,—you are weeping! O Mabel, timid Mabel, Go spread the supper table, And set the tea a-steeping. Your lover’s heart is brave, His boat is staunch and tight; And your father knows the perilous reef That makes the water white. But Mabel, Mabel darling, 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, God pity wives and sweethearts Who wait and wait, in vain! And pity little Mabel, With her face against the pane. A boom! the lighthouse gun! How its echo 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? Oh, watch no more, no more, With face against the pane; You cannot see the men that drown By the Beacon in the rain! From a shoal of richest rubies Breaks the morning clear and cold; 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. Oh, ancient fishermen, Go up to yonder cot! You’ll find a little child With face against the pane, Who looks towards the beach, And, looking, sees it not. She will never watch again! Never watch and weep at night! For those pretty, saintly eyes Look beyond the stormy skies, And they see the Beacon Light. —Thomas Bailey Aldrich. By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company. This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. |
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