'Tis night; within the close-shut cabin door
The room is wrapped in shade, save where there fall Some twilight rays that creep along the floor, And show the fisher's nets upon the wall.
In the dim corner, from the oaken chest,
A few white dishes glimmer; in the shade
Stands a tall bed with dusky curtains dressed,
And a rough mattress at its side is laid.
Five children on the long, low mattress lie-
A nest of little souls, it heaves with dreams:
In the high chimney the last embers die,
And redden the dark room with crimson gleams.
The mother kneels and thinks, and, pale with fear,
She prays alone, hearing the billows shout;
While to wild winds, to rocks, to midnight drear,
The ominous old ocean sobs without.
Poor wives of fishers! Ah! 'tis sad to say
"Our sons, our husbands, all that we love best, Our hearts, our souls, are on those waves away, Those ravening wolves that know not ruth, nor rest.
"Terrible fear! we seek the pebbly shore,
Cry to the rising billows, 'Bring them home!' Alas! what answer gives their troubled roar
To the dark thoughts that haunt us as we roam?"
The dawn was whitening over the sea's verge
As she sat pensive, touching broken chords
Of half-remorseful thought, while the hoarse surge
Howled a sad concert to her broken words.
"Ah! my poor husband!
Already so much care, For he must work for all. What was that noise?
We had five before.
so much to find,
I give him more.
His step? Ah, no! the wind!
"That I should be afraid of him I love!
I have done ill. If he should beat me now I would not blame him.
Does not the door move? Not yet, poor man!" She sits, with careful brow, Wrapped in her inward grief; nor hears the roar Of wind and waves that dash against his prow, Or the black cormorant shrieking on the shore.
Sudden the door flies open wide, and lets
Noisily in the dawn-light scarcely clear,
And the good fisher, dragging his damp nets,
Stands on the threshold, with a joyful cheer.
"'Tis thou!" she cries, and, eager as a lover,
Leaps up and holds her husband to her breast; Her greeting kisses all his vesture cover;
'Tis I, good wife!" and his broad face expressed
How gay his heart that Janet's love made light. "What weather was it?" "Hard." "Your fishing?"
The sea was like a nest of thieves to-night,
But I embrace thee, and my heart is light.
"There was a devil in the wind that blew;
I tore my net, caught nothing, broke my line. And once I thought the bark was broken, too; What did you all the night long, Janet mine?"
She, trembling in the darkness, answered, "I!
Oh, naught—I sewed, I watched, I was afraid.
The waves were loud as thunder from the sky,
But it is over." Shyly then she said:
"Our neighbor died last night; it must have been
When you were gone.
She left two little ones,
So small, so frail-William and Madeleine;
The one just lisps, the other scarcely runs.
The man looked grave, and in the corner cast
His old fur bonnet, wet with rain and sea,
Muttered awhile and scratched his head-at last:
"We have five children, this makes seven," said he.
"Already in bad weather we must sleep
Sometimes without our supper. Now! Ah, well-
These accidents are deep;
It was the good God's will. I cannot tell.
"Why did He take the mother from those scraps
No bigger than my fist? 'Tis hard to read.
A learned man might understand, perhaps-
So little, they can neither work nor need.
"Go fetch them, wife; they will be frightened sore,
If with the dead alone they waken thus.
That was the mother knocking at our door,
And we must take the children home to us.
"Brother and sister shall they be to ours,
And they will learn to climb my knee at even. When He shall see these strangers in our bowers, More fish, more food will give the God of Heaven.
"I will work harder; I will drink no wine—
Go fetch them. Wherefore dost thou linger, dear? Not thus are wont to move those feet of thine. She drew the curtain, saying, "They are here!" Victor Hugo-Translation of H. W. Alexander.
Arimathean Joseph craved, and gained
The grace to lay Him in His sepulcher.
Then, while the first day of the week was dark,
Alone I wended to His sepulcher,
Bearing fair water, and the frankincense,
And linen, that my Lord's sweet body sleep
Well in the rock. And, while my woeful feet
Passed through the gate, and up the paved ascent
Along the Second Wall, over the Hill,
Into that Garden, hard by Golgotha,
The morning brightened over Moab's peaks.
Touched the great Temple's dome with crimson fires, Lit Ophel and Moriah rosy red,
Made Olivet all gold, and, in the pools
In Hinnom, laid a sudden lance of flame;
And from the thorn-trees, brake the waking songs
Of little birds; and every palm-tree's top
Was full of doves that cooed, as knowing not
How Love was dead, and Life's dear glory gone,
And the World's hope lay in the tomb with Him;
Which now I spied-that hollow in the rock
Under the camphire leaves. Yet, no guards there
To help me roll the stone! Nay, and no stone!
It lay apart, leaving the door a-gape,
And through the door, as I might dimly see,
The scattered wrappings of the burial night,
Pale gleams amidst the gloom.
Not waiting, then, Deeming our treasure taken wickedly
I sped; and came to Peter, and to John,
And cried: "Our Lord is stolen from His grave,
And none to tell where He is borne away!"
Thereat, they ran together, came, and saw;
And entered in; and found the linen cloths
Scattered; the rock-bed empty; and, amazed,
Back to their house they went. But I drew nigh
A second time, alone; heart-broken now,
The bright day seeming blackest night to me,
The small birds mockers, and the City's noise—
Waking within the walls-hateful and vain.
Why should Earth wake, the Son of Man asleep?
Or that great guilty City rise and live,
With this dear Lord, dead, in her stony skirts?
Fled, too, my last fond hope, to lay Him fair,
And kiss His wounded feet, and wash the blood
From the pierced palms, and comb His tangled hair
To comeliness, and leave Him-like a King-
To His forgetful Angels. Weeping hard
With these thoughts, like to snake-fangs, stinging me,
My left hand on the stone I laid, and shut
The eager sunshine off with my right hand,
Kneeling, and looking in the sepulcher.
It was not dark within! I deemed at first
A lamp burned there, such radiance mild I saw
Lighting the hewn walls, and the linen bands;
And, in one corner, folded by itself,
The face-cloth. Coming closer, I espied
Two men who sate there-very watchfully-
One at the head, the other at the foot
Of that stone table where my Lord had lain.
Oh! I say "men"-I should have known no men
Had eyes like theirs, shapes so majestical,
Tongues tuned to such a music as the tone
Wherewith they questioned me: "Why weepest thou?"
'Ah, Sirs!" I said, "my Lord is ta'en away,
Nor wot we whither!" and thereat my tears
Blotted all seeing. So, I turned to wipe
The hot drops off; and, look! Another one
Standing behind me, and my foolish eyes
Hard gazing on Him, and not knowing Him!
Indeed, I deemed this was the Gardener
Keeping the trees and tomb, so was He flesh;
So living, natural, and made like man,
Albeit, if I had marked--if any ray
Of watchful hope had helped me-such a look,
Such Presence, beautiful and pure; such light
Of loveliest compassion in His face,
Had told my beating heart and blinded eyes
WHO this must be. But I-my brow i' the dust—
Heard Him say softly: "Wherefore weepest thou?
Whom seekest thou?" A little marveled I—
Still at His feet, too sorrowful to rise,—
He should ask this, -the void grave gaping near,
And He its watchman; yet His accents glad.
“Sir,” said I, "if 'tis thou hast borne Him hence,
Tell me where thou hast laid Him. Then will I
Bear Him away!"
Ah, friend, such answer came, that my sadness turned
Gladness, as suddenly as gray is gold
When the sun springs in glory! such a word
As made my mourning laugh itself to naught,
Like a cloud melting to the blue! Such word
As, with more music than Earth ever heard,
Set my swift-dancing veins full well aware
Why so the Day dawned, and the City stirred,
And the vast idle world went busy on,
And the birds caroled, and, in palm-tree tops,
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