XXVII.
Then rose the Captain, sternly sad, and where the
         sun had set,
He waved one hand, and cried in tones which could
         command them yet:
"Oh, comrades! will you see His works, and doubt
         that he can still
Save e'en in the eleventh hour, if such should be His
         will?

                                     XXVIII.
"Oh, whilst there's life, despair not! Have we
         mothers, children, wives?
Does not their memory give us all the strength of
         double lives?
Mind ye not how the widow's cruse, though wasted,
        filled again:
We've yet the widow's God o'erhead, and yet a little
         grain.

                                     XXIX.
"Oh! tender wives, who live for us, our hearts
         consent to take
A little hope, a little faith, for your beloved sake.
Oh! children of our dearest love! oh, pleasant home
         ashore!
Our souls can brave a thousand deaths to call ye
         ours once more!"

                                  PART II.

                                       I.
WHERE palaces of merchant kings in marbled splendour
        rise—
And gleam beneath the burning blue of fair Calcutta's
        skies—
Where orange groves and myrtle bowers weigh down
         the sultry air,
The Captain's fair young wife abode, and watched
        his coming there.

                                       II.
She never heard the billows roar, or saw a ship at
         sea,
Without a thought of those who steered the bonnie
         Golden Bee;
She never kissed her babes at night, or woke at dawn
         of day,
Without a prayer that God would speed her sailor
         on his way.

                                       III.
One night rose up a fierce monsoon, and with a
         sudden roar,
Startled the waves from twilight rest, and dashed
         against the shore;
Where all night long they shrieked and wailed, and
         sobbing sunk to sleep,
As dying groans of shipwrecked men fade on the
         silent deep.

                                      IV.
The Captain's babes serenely slept, and through the
         tempest smiled,
As sweet forget-me-nots bloom fair amid an Alpine
         wild;
The mother, weeping, clasped her hands, and, pacing
         to and fro,
Prayed, with a white-faced misery, in murmurs faint
         and low.

                                       V.
" Oh! husband, art thou safe ashore, or shipwrecked
        on the sea,
And do the wild waves bring from far thy drowning
         voice to me?
Oh! father of my sleeping babes 'tis hard that thou
         must bear
Dangers unspeakable, which I, thy own wife, may
         not share.

                                      VI.
" Oh, God! who mid ten thousand worlds has fixed
        thy glorious seat,
And cares for every human heart that worships at
         thy feet,
Pity my happy, helpless babes— my watchful agony,
And guide my husband's precious life in safety back
        to me."

                                      VII.
Days glided by, and brought the time when every
         ship might be
That one for which her soul was sick of wistfulness
         to see;
Days grew to weeks, and still she watched, and
         hoped, and prayed the same,
For the Golden Bee's safe advent, which never, never
        came.

                                     VIII.
Then rose a morn, when hope grew faint, within her
         patient heart,
When every sudden voice, or step, would make her
        pale and start,
With some deep undefinèd fear, that brought no
         words or tears,
But worked upon her maiden cheeks, the furrowed
         grief of years.

                                     IX.
Ah, me! the sailor's lot was hard, to drift upon the
         waves,
Which yawned beneath the tempest's breath, and
         showed a thousand graves;
With scarce a hope of seeing wife or children any
         more,—
But oh! the woman's part was worst, to wait, and
        weep ashore!

                                      X.
She held her children to her heart, and prayed without
        a word
(Ofttimes the heart's unspoken prayer by Heaven is
         soonest heard);
And if they heedless played or slept, the passion of
         her grief
Would spend itself in wailing tears, which brought
        her no relief.

                                      XI.
Then, as a soft and tranquil day follows a night of
         rain,
And drooping flowers will feel the sun, and ope their
         leaves again,
For sweetest sake of feeble babes, no helper by save
         One,
She learned to lead a widowed life, and say, " Thy
         will be done."

                                     XII.
One night the moon escaped from clouds, and with
         a pale light gleamed
Over the sea, which felt the glow, and murmured as
         it dreamed;
Her bright boy cradled at her feet, her baby on her
         breast,
She sung her evening cradle song, and hushed the
         pair to rest.

                                    XIII.
And with the heaven's tranquil light upon her golden
         hair,
The mother's love within her eyes— eyes that were
         still so fair;
She looked like some Madonna, of antique Italian
         art,
Such as breathe the whole religion of the painter's
         pious heart.