And they, for love has watchers In air, on earth, and sea, Were saved by clinging to the wreck, And their marriage-destiny. From sunset to night's noon She had lean'd upon his arm, Nor heard the far-off thunder toll The tocsin of alarm. Not so the youth--he listen'd To the cloud-wing flapping by; And low he whisper'd in Low Dutch, "It tells our doom is nigh. "Death is the lot of mortals, But we are young and strong, And hoped, not boldly, for a life Of happy years and long. "Yet 'tis a thought consoling, That, till our latest breath, We loved in life, and shall not be Divided in our death. "Alas, for those that wait us On their couch of dreams at home, The morn will hear the funeral cry Around their daughter's tomb. "They hoped" ('twas a strange moment In Dutch to quote Shakspeare) "Thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy bier." But, sweetly-voiced and smiling, The trusting maiden said, "Breathed not thy lips the vow to-day, To-morrow we will wed? "And I, who have known thy truth Through years of joy and sorrow, Can I believe the fickle winds? No! we shall wed to-morrow!" The tempest heard and paused-- The wild sea gentler moved-- They felt the power of woman's faith In the word of him she loved. All night to rope and spar They clung with strength untired, Till the dark clouds fled before the sun, And the fierce storm expired. At noon the song of bridal bells O'er hill and valley ran; At eve he call'd the maiden his, "Before the holy man." They dwelt beside the waters That bathe yon fallen pine, And round them grew their sons and daughters, Like wild grapes on the vine. And years and years flew o'er them, Like birds with beauty on their wings, And theirs were happy sleigh-ride winters, And long and lovely springs, Such joys as thrill'd the lips that kiss'd The wave, rock-cool'd, from Horeb's fountains, And sorrows, fleeting as the mist Of morning, spread upon the mountains, Till, in a good old age, Their life-breath pass'd away; Their name is on the churchyard page-- Their story in my lay. * * * * * * * * * * And let them rest together, The maid, the boat, the boy, Why sing of matrimony now, In this brief hour of joy? Our time may come, and let it-- 'Tis enough for us now to know That our bark will reach West Point ere long, If the breeze keep on to blow. We have Hudibras and Milton, Wines, flutes, and a bugle-horn, And a dozen segars are lingering yet Of the thousand of yestermorn.