Onward and upward still she went Among the breezy hills, Singing for very joyfulness Unto the singing rills. The days of her captivity, The days of fear and pain, Were past, and now through shade and shine, She wandered free again. Free, like the breezes of the hill, Free, like the waters wild; And in her fullness of delight, Unceasingly from height to height Went on the blessed child. And ever when she needed food, Some wanderer of the hill Drew forth the morsel from his scrip, And bade her eat her fill. For He who fed by Cherith-brook The prophet in his need, Of this his wandering little one Unceasingly had heed. And ever when she needed rest, Some little cove she found, So green, so sheltered, and so still, Upon the bosom of the hill, As angels girt it round. Thus hidden ’mong the quiet hills Alone, yet wanting nought, She dwelt secure, until her foes For her no longer sought. Then forth she journeyed. Soon the hills Were of more smooth descent; And downward now, and onward still, Toward the sea she went. Toward the great sea for many days; And now she heard its roar; Had sunlit glimpses of it now, And now she trod the shore. A rugged shore of broken cliffs, And barren wave-washed sand, Where only the dry sea-wheat grew By patches on the strand. A weary way walked Marien Beside the booming sea, Nor boat, nor hut, nor fisherman Throughout the day saw she. A weary, solitary way; And as the day declined Over the dark and troubled sea Arose a stormy wind. The heavy waves came roaring in With the strong coming tide; The rain poured down, and deep dark night Closed in on every side. There stood the homeless Marien With bare, unsandaled feet; And on her form, with pitiless force, The raging tempest beat. Clasping her hands, she stood forlorn, “In tempest, and in night:” She cried, “Oh Lord, I trust in thee, And thou wilt lead me right!” Now underneath a shelving bank Of sea-driving sand, there stood A miserable hut, the home Of a poor fisher good, Whose loving wife but yesternight Died in his arms, and he, Since that day’s noon, alone had been Casting his nets at sea. At noon he kissed his little ones, And would be back, he said, Long ere night closed; but with the night Arose that tempest dread. It was an old and crazy boat, Wherein the man was set, And soon ’twas laden heavily With many a laden net. “Oh sorrow, sorrow!” groaned he forth, As rose the sudden squall, Thinking upon the mother dead, And on his children small.