THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
AN OLD SEAMAN’S STORY.
PART I.
I’ll tell ye, if ye hearken now,
A thing that chanced to me—
It must be fifty years agone—
Upon the southern sea.
First-mate was I of the Nancy,
A tight ship and a sound;
We had made a prosperous voyage,
And then were homeward bound.
We were sailing on the Tropic seas,
Before the trade-wind’s power;
Day after day, without delay,
Full thirteen knots an hour.
The sea was as a glassy lake,
By a steady gale impressed;
There was nought for any man to do
But just what liked him best.
And yet the calm was wearisome;
The dull days idly sped;
And sometimes on a flute I played,
Or else a book I read.
And dallying thus one afternoon,
I stood upon the deck;
When far off, to the leeward,
I saw a faintish speck.
Whether ’twas rock, or fish, or cloud,
At first I did not know;
So I called unto a seaman,
That he might look also.
And as it neared, I saw for sure
That it must be a boat;
But my fellow swore it was not so,
But a large bamboo afloat.
We called a third unto us then,
That he the sight might see;
Then came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth;
But no two could agree.
“Nay, ’tis a little boat,” I said,
“And it roweth with an oar!”
But none of them could see it so,
All differing as before.
“It cometh on; I see it plain;
It is a boat!” I cried,
“A little boat o’erlaid with pearl,
And a little child to guide!”
And sure enough, a boat it was,
And worked with an oar;
But such a boat as ’twas, no man
Had ever seen before.
Within in it sate a little child,
The fairest e’er was seen;
His robes were like the amethyst,
His mantle of sea-green.
No covering wore he on his head,
And the hair that on it grew
Showered down in thick and wavy locks
Of the sunniest golden hue.
The rudest man on board our ship
Blest God that sight to see;
For me I could do nought but weep,
Such power had it on me.
There sat he in his pretty boat,
Like an angel from the sky,
Regarding us in our great ship,
With wonder in his eye.
The little oar slid from his hand;
His sweet lips were apart;
Within my soul I felt his joy;
His wonder in my heart.
And as we tokened him to come,
His little boat he neared,
And smiled at all our friendly words,
Nor seemed the least afeared.
“Come hither a-board!” the captain said!
And without fear of ill,
He sprang into the lordly ship,
With frank and free good will.
He was no son of the merman;
No syren full of guile;
But a creature like the cherubim,
From some unknown-of isle.
And strange to tell, his pleasant speech
Was English, every word;
And yet such English, sweet and pure,
As his I never heard.
There were three, he said, who dwelt with him
Within a tamarind-grove;
His parents and his sister young,—
A family of love.
His father, he said, had made his boat
From out a large sea-shell;
“And what a wondrous tale,” said he,
“I shall this evening tell!”
His robes, he said, his mother had wove
From roots of an Indian-tree;
And he laughed at the clothes the seamen wore,
With the merriest mockery.
When the little child had stayed with us,
May-be an hour or so,
He smiled farewell to all on board,
And said that he would go.
“For I must be back again,” said he,
“For me they all will wait;
I must be back again,” quoth he,
“Or ever the day be late!”
“He shall not go!” the captain said;
“Haul up his boat and oar!
The pretty boy shall sail with us
To the famous English shore!
“Thou shalt with me, my pretty boy;
I’ll find thee a new mother;—
I’ve children three at home, and thou
To them shalt be a brother!”
“Nay, nay, I shall go back!” he said;
“For thee I do not know;—
I must be back again,” he cried,
“Before the sun be low!”
Then sprang unto the vessel’s side,
And made as he would go.
The captain was a strong, stern man;
None liked him overwell;
And to a seaman standing near,
Said he, with voice and look austere,
“Haul up yon cockle-shell!
And you, my boy, content you,
In this good ship to dwell!”
As one who gladly would believe
Some awful threat a joke,
So heard the child, with half a smile,
The words the captain spoke.
But when he saw them seize his boat,
And put his oar away,
The smile was gone, and o’er his face
Quick passed a pale dismay.
And then a passion seized his frame,
As if he were possessed;
He stamped his little feet in rage,
And smote upon his breast,
’Twas a wicked deed as e’er was done—
I longed to set him free;
And the impotence of his great grief
Was a grievous sight to me.
At length, when rage had spent itself
His lofty heart gave way,
And, falling on his pretty knees,
At the captain’s feet he lay.
“Oh take me back again!” he cried,
“Let me not tarry here,
And I’ll give thee sea-apples,
And honey rich and clear;
“And fetch thee heavy pearl-stones
From deep sea-caves below;
And red tree-gold and coral-tree,
If thou wilt let me go!
“Or if I must abide with thee,—
In thy great ship to dwell,
Let me but just go back again,
To bid them all farewell!”
And at the word “farewell” he wept,
As if his heart would break;
The very memory of his tears
Sore sad my heart doth make.
The captain’s self was almost moved
To hear his woful cry;
And there was not within the ship
One man whose eyes were dry.
When the captain saw the seamen’s grief,
An angry man was he,
And shut his heart against the child,
For our great sympathy.
Down from the deck he took him
To his cabin all alone:
We saw him not for many a day,
But only heard his moan.
PART II.
It was a wicked deed, and Heaven
All wickedness doth hate;
And vengeance on the oppressor,
It cometh soon or late,—
As you will see. There something was,
Even from the very night
Whereon the captain stole the child,
On board that was not right.
From out the cabin evermore,
Where they were all alone,
We heard, oh piteous sounds to hear,
A low and quiet moan;
And now and then cries sad enough
To move a heart of stone.
The captain had a conscious look,
Like one who doeth wrong,
And yet who striveth all the time
Against a conscience strong.
The seamen did not work at all
With a good will or a free;
And the ship, as she were sullen too,
Went slowly over the sea,
’Twas then the captain from below
Sent down in haste for me.
I found him lying on his bed,
Oppressed with fever-pain;
And by his death-struck face, I saw
That he would not rise again,—
That he, so lately hale and strong,
Would never rise again.
“I have done wickedly,” said he,
“And Christ doth me condemn;—
I have children three on land,” groaned he,
“And woe will come to them!
“I have been weighed, and wanting found;
I’ve done an evil deed!—
I pray thee, mate, ’tis not too late,
Take back this child with speed!
“I have children three,” again groaned he,
“And I pray that this be done!—
Thou wilt have order of the ship
When I am dead and gone:—
I pray thee do the thing I ask,
That mercy may be won!”
I vowed to do the thing he asked,
Upon the Testament;
And true enough, that very day
To his account he went.
I took the little child away,
And set him on my knee,
In the free fresh air upon the deck,
But he spoke no word to me.
I feared at first that all his grief
Had robbed him of his speech,
And that I ne’er by word or look,
His sunken soul could reach.
At length he woke from that dead woe,
Like one that long hath slept,
And cast his arms about my neck,
And long and freely wept,
I clasped him close unto my breast,
Yet knew not what to say,
To wile him from the misery
That on his spirit lay.
At length I did bethink me
Of Jesus Christ; and spake
To that poor lamb of all the woe
He suffered for our sake.
“For me and thee, dear child,” I said,
“He suffered, and be sure
He will not lay a pang on thee
Without he give the cure!”
Like as the heavy clouds of night
Pass from the coming day,
So cleared the sullen weight of woe
From his dear soul away.
Oh happy hours of converse sweet;—
The Christian’s hope he knew,
And with an eager heart he gained
That knowledge sweet and new.
And ever by my side he kept,
Loving, and meek, and still:
But never more to him returned
His bold and wayward will:—
He had been tried and purified
From every taint of ill.
PART III.
The eve whereon the captain died
I turned the ship about,
And said unto the seamen good,
“We’ll find the island out.”
So back unto the place we came,
Where we the child had found;
And two full days with anxious watch,
We sailed it all around.
And on the third, at break of day,
A far-off peak was seen;
And then the low-lands rose to view,
All woody, rich, and green.
Down on his knees the child he fell,
When the mountains came in view,
And tears ran streaming from his eyes,—
For his own isle he knew.
And, with a wildly-piercing tone,
He cried, “Oh mother dear,
Weep not,—I come, my mother!”
Long, long ere she could hear.
And soon we saw a mountain-top
Whereon a beacon burned;
Then as the good ship neared the land,
An answer was returned.
“Oh give to me my boat!” he cried,
“And give to me mine oar!”
Just then we saw another boat
Pushed from the island-shore.
A carved boat of sandal-wood,
Its sail a silken mat,
All richly wrought in rainbow-dyes,
And three within her sat.
Down from the ship into the sea
The little boy he sprung;
And the mother gave a scream of joy,
With which the island rung.
Like some sea-creature beautiful
He swam the ocean-tide,
And ere we wondered at his skill
He clomb the shallop’s side.
Next moment in his mother’s arms
He lay, O sweet embrace!
Looking from her dear bosom up
Into her loving face.
The happiest and the sweetest sight
That e’er mine eyes will see,
Was the coming back of this poor child
Unto his family!
—Now wot ye of his parentage?
Sometime I’ll tell you it;
Of meaner matter many a time
Has many a book been writ.
’Twould make a pleasant history
Of joy scarce touched by woe,
Of innocence and love; but now
This only must you know.
His mother was of English birth,
Well-born, and young, and fair;
In the wreck of an East-Indiaman
She had been saved there.
His father was the island’s chief,
Goodly as man can be;
Adam, methinks, in Paradise
Was such a one as he.
’Tis not for my weak speech to tell
The joy so sweet and good,
Of these kind, simple islanders,
Nor all their gratitude.
Whate’er the island held they gave;
Delicious fruits and vines,
Rich-tinted shells from out the sea,
And ore from out their mines.
But I might not stay; and that same day
Again we turned about,
And, with the wind that changed then
Went from the harbour out.
—’Tis joy to do an upright deed;
’Tis joy to do a kind;
And the best rewards of virtuous deeds
Is the peace of one’s own mind.
But a blessing great went with the ship,
And with the frieght she bore;
The pearl-shells turned to great account,
So did the island’s ore;—
But I someway lost my reckoning,
Nor found the island more.
And how the child became a man,
Or what to him befel,
As I never trod the island more;
Is not for me to tell.