  Sailor and mother by a dresser, examining the jacket “Oh! tell me, sailor, tell me true, Is my little lad, my Elihu, A-sailing with your ship?” The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,— “Your little lad, your Elihu?” He said with trembling lip,— “What little lad? What ship?” “What little lad? as if there could be Another such a one as he! What little lad, do you say? Why, Elihu, that took to sea The moment I put him off my knee! It was just the other day The Gray Swan sailed away!” “The other day?” The sailor’s eyes Stood open with a great surprise:— “The other day?—The Swan?” His heart began in his throat to rise. “Ay, ay, sir! here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on!” “And so your lad is gone?” “Gone with the Swan!”—“And did she stand With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, For a month and never stir?” “Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the land Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand, The wild sea kissing her,— A sight to remember, sir!” “But, my good mother, do you know All this was twenty years ago? I stood on the Gray Swan’s deck, And to that lad I saw you throw (Taking it off, as it might be, so) The kerchief from your neck,”— “Ay, and he’ll bring it back!” “And did the little lawless lad, That has made you sick, and made you sad, Sail with the Gray Swan’s crew?” “Lawless! The man is going mad! The best boy mother ever had:— Be sure he sailed with the crew! What would you have him do?” “And he has never written line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign, To say he was alive?” “Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine; Besides, he may be in the brine; And could he write from the grave? Tut, man! What would you have?” “Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise, ’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse! But if the lad still live, And come back home, think you, you can Forgive him?”—“Miserable man! You’re mad as the sea; you rave,— What have I to forgive?” The sailor twitched his shirt of blue; And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild. “Oh God, my Father! is it true? My little lad, my Elihu! And is it—is it—is it you? My blessed boy, my child, My dead, my living child!” My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. —Wordsworth. |
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