So my spirit often acheth For the melodies it lacketh 'Neath thy sway, or cannot hear For its mortal-cloaked ear. And full thirstily it longeth For the beauty that belongeth To the Autumn's ripe fulfilling;-- Heaped orchard-baskets spilling 'Neath the laughter-shaken trees; Fields of buckwheat full of bees, Girt with ancient groves of fir Shod with berried juniper; Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves; Heavy-headed nodding sheaves; Clumps of luscious blackberries; Purple-cluster'd traceries Of the cottage climbing-vines; Scarlet-fruited eglantines; Maple forests all aflame When thy sharp-tongued legates came. Ruler with an iron hand O'er an intermediate land! Glad am I thy realm is border'd By the plains more richly order'd,-- Stock'd with sweeter-glowing forms,-- Where the prison'd brightness warms In lush crimsons through the leaves, And a gorgeous legend weaves. CIX. ABIGAIL BECKER. (_Off Long Point Island, Lake Erie, November 24th, 1854._) AMANDA T. JONES. The wind, the wind where Erie plunged, Blew, blew nor'-east from land to land; The wandering schooner dipp'd and lunged,-- Long Point was close at hand. Long Point--a swampy island-slant, Where, busy in their grassy homes, Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt, And musk-rats build their domes; Where gulls and eagles rest at need, Where either side, by lake or sound, Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed, And mallard ducks abound. The lowering night shut out the sight: Careen'd the vessel, pitch'd and veer'd,-- Raved, raved the wind with main and might; The sunken reef she near'd. She pounded over, lurch'd, and sank; Between two sand-bars settling fast, Her leaky hull the waters drank, And she had sail'd her last. Into the rigging, quick as thought, Captain and mate and sailors sprung, Clamber'd for life, some vantage caught, And there all night they swung. And it was cold--oh, it was cold! The pinching cold was like a vise: Spoondrift flew freezing,--fold on fold It coated them with ice. Now when the dawn began to break, Light up the sand-path drench'd and brown, To fill her bucket from the lake, Came Mother Becker down. From where her cabin crown'd the bank Came Abigail Becker tall and strong: She dipp'd, and lo! a broken plank Came rocking close along! She pois'd her glass with anxious ken: The schooner's top she spied from far, And there she counted seven men That clung to mast and spar. And oh, the gale! the rout and roar! The blinding drift, the mounting wave, A good half-mile from wreck to shore, With seven men to save!