Her husband tosses on his cot below Burning with fever, often calls her name. But she must stand his watch though none may know Of her long vigil. Vestal of a flame Whose warning beams guide mariners aright Mid perilous reefs, through all engulfing gloom Though unclean spirits rage throughout the night Riding the furious winds in rain and spume, No matter if she shivers and turns pale, Her courage, like her light, endures the gale. But what drives hard like spray against the glass Hurtling from out the dark? a tiny form With battered wings, a tern which flees, alas, Like some lost soul from the pursuing storm Dashed to the rocks below. “Dear God!” she cries “Why must my light that points great ships the way “Be blooded by his piteous sacrifice? “Life saving beams, who gave them power to slay? “How hopelessly must good and evil blend “When harmless birds meet such a cruel end.” ON CHATHAM BARS On Chatham bars the surges moan And sea birds cry; A gull goes winging stark and lone Across the sky; While on the shore, with menace low, Mutters the seething undertow. O’er Chatham bars a frighted cloud Goes driven fast; The shoals are answering hoarse and loud The roaring blast, And joining that wild revelry Of frenzied winds and raging sea. Through blinding sands with bended head The coast guard goes By Chatham bars, in silent dread For well he knows, That surf may leave, on its retreat, Some ghastly trophy at his feet! On Easter morn the mourners stand On Chatham hill, To chant again His high command, Of - “Peace be still” And scatter flowers upon the wave To drift above some nameless grave. For Chatham bars are silent now On Easter Day, Before that solemn group who bow Their heads and pray To Him, the Risen One, Who said, “Then shall the sea give up its dead.” THE OLD TIMER’S LAMENT O where is the Cape that I used to know In the quaint old days of the long ago? The weathered house with its friendly smoke From the looming background of silver oak; And the huge brick oven that flanked the grate Where the fireplace yawned like the flaming gate Of a fairy world to my childish gaze While the russets sputtered before the blaze-- Was there ever such comfort and homey cheer As the Cape that my memory holds so dear?