"Though here I've sailed a score of years, And heard 'em, dream or wake, Lap small and hollow 'gainst my cheek, On sand and coral break; "'Yet now,' my leetle son, says I, A-drifting on the wave, 'That land I see so safe and green, Is England, I believe. "'And that there wood is English wood, And this here cruel sea, The selfsame old blue ocean Years gone remembers me. "'A-sitting with my bread and butter Down ahind yon chitterin' mill; And this same Marinere'--(that's me), 'Is that same leetle Will!-- "'That very same wee leetle Will Eating his bread and butter there, A-looking on the broad blue sea Betwixt his yaller hair!' "And here be I, my son, thrown up Like corpses from the sea, Ships, stars, winds, tempests, pirates past, Yet leetle Will I be!" He said no more, that sailorman, But in a reverie Stared like the figure of a ship With painted eyes to sea. THE PHANTOM "Upstairs in the large closet, child, This side the blue room door, Is an old Bible, bound in leather, Standing upon the floor; "Go with this taper, bring it me; Carry it so, upon your arm; It is the book on many a sea Hath stilled the waves' alarm." Late the hour, dark the night, The house is solitary; Feeble is a taper's light To light poor Ann to see. Her eyes are yet with visions bright Of sylph and river, flower and fay, Now through a narrow corridor She goes her lonely way. Vast shadows on the heedless walls Gigantic loom, stoop low: Each little hasty footfall calls Hollowly to and fro. In the cold solitude her heart Remembers sorrowfully White winters when her mother was Her loving company. Now in the dark clear glass she sees A taper, mocking hers,-- A phantom face of light blue eyes, Reflecting phantom fears. Around her loom the vacant rooms, Wind the upward stairs, She climbs on into a loneliness Only her taper shares. Out in the dark a cold wind stirs, At every window sighs; A waning moon peers small and chill From out the cloudy skies, Casting faint tracery on the walls; So stony still the house From cellar to attic rings the shrill Squeak of the hungry mouse. Her grandmother is deaf with age; A garden of moonless trees Would answer not though she should cry In anguish on her knees. So that she scarce can breathe--so fast Her pent up heart doth beat-- When, faint along the corridor, Falleth the sound of feet:-- Sounds lighter than silk slippers make Upon a ballroom floor, when sweet Violin and 'cello wake Music for twirling feet. O! 'neath an old unfriendly roof, What shapes may not conceal Their faces in the open day, At night abroad to steal? Even her taper seems with fear To languish small and blue; Far in the woods the winter wind Runs whistling through. A dreadful cold plucks at each hair, Her mouth is stretched to cry, But sudden, with a gush of joy, It narrows to a sigh.