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The poems of Mary Howitt

Chapter 53: THE STORMY PETEREL.

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About This Book

A varied volume of lyrical and narrative poems, hymns, and moral pieces that blend domestic sentiment, Christian reflection, and close observation of the natural world. Organized into thematic sections—hymns and fireside verses, birds and flowers, sketches of natural history, tales in verse, and miscellaneous pieces—the poems range from gentle meditations on mortality and virtue to ballads and dramatic monologues, often aimed at or suitable for young readers. The collection pairs simple didactic storytelling with vivid rural imagery, and is accompanied by a brief memoir outlining the poet’s upbringing and literary influences.

THE STORMY PETEREL.

O stormy, stormy, Peterel,

Come rest thee, bird, awhile;

There is no storm, believe me,

Anigh this summer isle.

Come, rest thy waving pinions;

Alight thee down by me;

And tell me somewhat of the lore

Thou learnest on the sea!

Dost hear beneath the ocean

The gathering tempest form?

See’st thou afar the little cloud

That grows into the storm?

How is it in the billowy depths—

Doth sea-weed heave and swell?

And is a sound of coming woe

Rung from each caverned shell?

Dost watch the stormy sunset

In tempests of the west;

And see the old moon riding slow

With the new moon on her breast?

Dost mark the billows heaving

Before the coming gale;

And scream for joy of every sound

That turns the seaman pale?

Are gusty tempests mirth to thee?

Lov’st thou the lightning’s flash;

The booming of the mountain waves—

The thunder’s deafening crash?

O stormy, stormy Peterel,

Thou art a bird of woe!

Yet would I thou could’st tell me half

Of the misery thou dost know!

There was a ship went down last night,—

A good ship and a fair;

A costly freight within her lay,

And many a soul was there!

The night-black storm was over her,

And ’neath the caverned wave:

In all her strength she perished,

Nor skill of man could save.

The cry of her great agony

Went upward to the sky;

She perished in her strength and pride,

Nor human aid was nigh.

But thou, O stormy Peterel,

Went’st screaming o’er the foam;—

Are there no tidings from that ship

Which thou canst carry home?

Yes! He who raised the tempest up,

Sustained each drooping one;

And God was present in the storm,

Though human aid was none!