THE GIFT OF THE SEA

THE dead child lay in the shroud,

And the widow watched beside;

And her mother slept, and the Channel swept The gale in the teeth of the tide.

But the mother laughed at all.

"I have lost my man in the sea,

And the child is dead. Be still," she said, "What more can ye do to me?"

The widow watched the dead,

And the candle guttered low,

And she tried to sing the Passing Song
That bids the poor soul go.

And "Mary take you now," she sang,
"That lay against my heart."
And "Mary smooth your crib to-night,"
But she could not say "Depart."

Then came a cry from the sea,

But the sea-rime blinded the glass,

And "Heard ye nothing, mother?" she said, "'Tis the child that waits to pass."

And the nodding mother sighed.
"'Tis a lambing ewe in the whin,

For why should the christened soul cry out
That never knew of sin?"

"O feet I have held in my hand,
O hands at my heart to catch,

How should they know the road to go,
And how should they lift the latch?"

They laid a sheet to the door,

With the little quilt atop,

That it might not hurt from the cold or the dirt,

But the crying would not stop.

The widow lifted the latch

And strained her eyes to see,

And opened the door on the bitter shore
To let the soul go free.

There was neither glimmer nor ghost,
There was neither spirit nor spark,

And "Heard ye nothing, mother?" she said, "'Tis crying for me in the dark."

And the nodding mother sighed:
"'Tis sorrow makes ye dull;

Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern,
Or the wail of the wind-blown gull?”

"The terns are blown inland,

The gray gull follows the plough. 'Twas never a bird, the voice I heard, O mother, I hear it now!"

"Lie still, dear lamb, lie still;

The child is passed from harm,

'Tis the ache in your breast that broke your rest, And the feel of an empty arm."

She put her mother aside,

"In Mary's name let be!

For the peace of my soul I must go," she said, And she went to the calling sea.

In the heel of the wind-bit pier,

Where the twisted weed was piled,

She came to the life she had missed by an hour, For she came to a little child.

She laid it into her breast,

And back to her mother she came,

But it would not feed and it would not heed,
Though she gave it her own child's name.

And the dead child dripped on her breast,
And her own in the shroud lay stark;
And "God forgive us, mother," she said,
"We let it die in the dark!"

Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
Because the city gave him of her gold,
Because the caravans brought turquoises,
Because his life was sheltered by the King,

So that no man should maim him, none should steal,
Or break his rest with babble in the streets

When he was weary after toil, he made
An image of his God in gold and pearl,
With turquoise diadem and human eyes,
A wonder in the sunshine, known afar,

And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with
pride,

Because the city bowed to him for God,

He wrote above the shrine: "Thus Gods are made, And whoso makes them otherwise shall die."

And all the city praised him. . . . Then he died.

Read here the story of Evarra- ·man·
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
Because the city had no wealth to give,
Because the caravans were spoiled afar,

Because his life was threatened by the King,
So that all men despised him in the streets,
He hewed the living rock, with sweat and tears,
And reared a God against the morning-gold,
A terror in the sunshine, seen afar,

And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with
pride,

Because the city fawned to bring him back,

He carved upon the plinth: "Thus Gods are made,
And whoso makes them otherwise shall die."
And all the people praised him. . . . Then he
died.

Read here the story of Evarra- man
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
Because he lived among a simple folk,

Because his village was between the hills,

Because he smeared his cheeks with blood of ewes,

He cut an idol from a fallen pine,

Smeared blood upon its cheeks, and wedged a shell
Above its brows for eyes, and gave it hair
Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown.
And all the village praised him for this craft,
And brought him butter, honey, milk, and curds.
Wherefore, because the shoutings drove him
mad,

He scratched upon that log: "Thus Gods are made,
And whoso makes them otherwise shall die."

And all the people praised him. . . . Then he

died.