Drowned in the Tropics

The Mother's Questions

Drowned, say you? Tell me, tell me, how she fares,
My drowned one? Has she met the finny shoal?
And rolled into that glancing march of theirs
Her attitudes of death, with no control
Of living will? Perchance, her feeble form
Falters about wild headlands in the dark,
Where no expectant mother's voice bids 'Hark!
'Tis our own Mary!' Or the tropic storm,
With its fierce lightning rends her lonely face;
Or waterspouts, with writhing motion, suck
At her dear relics; prey-birds bless their luck
To find her; or the shark and sea-dog trace
From far my fair-eyed fondling — cruel chase
After a helpless prey, already struck!

The Sea-Fairies' Answer

Our spells shall keep her floating, yet unchanged;
The nautilus shall push his purple sail
Across her happy shadow; in the gale
The storm-blown land-bird, which too far hath ranged,
Shall trust her look, and perch, and close his eye:
Around her shall the graceful proás move,
And fling their garland-gifts of awe and love;
And, when the tropic midnight veils the sky,
On fair phosphoric seas thy child shall rest,
And morn shall find her, when the day comes back,
Laid, as in Heaven's own river, in the track
Of sunrise o'er the waters — to suggest
In symbol, that her soul is pure and blest,
And floats from light to light, and cannot die.