And, as I touch that lock, strange visions throng Upon my soul with dreamy grace-- Of woman's hair, the theme of poet's song In every time and place. A child's bright tresses, by the breezes kissed To sweet disorder as she flies, Veiling, beneath a cloud of golden mist, Flushed cheek and laughing eyes-- Or fringing, like a shadow, raven-black, The glory of a queen-like face-- Or from a gipsy's sunny brow tossed back In wild and wanton grace-- Or crown-like on the hoary head of Age, Whose tale of life is well-nigh told-- Or, last, in dreams I make my pilgrimage To Bethany of old. I see the feast--the purple and the gold-- The gathering crowd of Pharisees, Whose scornful eyes are centred to behold Yon woman on her knees. The stifled sob rings strangely on mine ears, Wrung from the depth of sin's despair: And still she bathes the sacred feet with tears, And wipes them with her hair. He scorned not then the simple loving deed Of her, the lowest and the last; Then scorn not thou, but use with earnest heed This relic of the past. The eyes that loved it once no longer wake: So lay it by with reverent care-- Touching it tenderly for sorrow's sake-- It is a woman's hair. _Feb. 17, 1862._ [Illustration] THE SAILOR'S WIFE. See! There are tears upon her face-- Tears newly shed, and scarcely dried: Close, in an agonised embrace, She clasps the infant at her side. Peace dwells in those soft-lidded eyes, Those parted lips that faintly smile-- Peace, the foretaste of Paradise, In heart too young for care or guile. No peace that mother's features wear; But quivering lip, and knotted brow, And broken mutterings, all declare The fearful dream that haunts her now. The storm-wind, rushing through the sky, Wails from the depths of cloudy space; Shrill, piercing as the seaman's cry When death and he are face to face. Familiar tones are in the gale: They ring upon her startled ear: And quick and low she pants the tale That tells of agony and fear: "Still that phantom-ship is nigh-- With a vexed and life-like motion, All beneath an angry sky, Rocking on an angry ocean. "Round the straining mast and shrouds Throng the spirits of the storm: Darkly seen through driving clouds, Bends each gaunt and ghastly form. "See! The good ship yields at last! Dumbly yields, and fights no more; Driving, in the frantic blast, Headlong on the fatal shore. "Hark! I hear her battered side, With a low and sullen shock, Dashed, amid the foaming tide, Full upon a sunken rock. "His face shines out against the sky, Like a ghost, so cold and white; With a dead despairing eye Gazing through the gathered night.