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Thomas Hood - The Mary (A Sea-Side Sketch)
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Lov`st thou not, Alice, with the early tide 
To see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast, 
And stretch his sail towards the ocean wide,— 
Like God`s own beadsman going forth to cast 
His net into the deep, which doth provide 
Enormous bounties, hidden in its vast 
Bosom like Charity`s, for all who seek 
And take its gracious boon thankful and meek?
 
The sea is bright with morning,—but the dark 
Seems still to linger on his broad black sail, 
For it is early hoisted, like a mark 
For the low sun to shoot at with his pale 
And level beams: All round the shadowy bark 
The green wave glimmers, and the gentle gale 
Swells in her canvas, till the waters show 
The keel`s new speed, and whiten at the bow.
 
Then look abaft—(for thou canst understand 
That phrase)—and there he sitteth at the stern, 
Grasping the tiller in his broad brown hand, 
The hardy Fisherman. Thou may`st discern 
Ten fathoms off the wrinkles in the tann`d 
And honest countenance that he will turn 
To look upon us, with a quiet gaze— 
As we are passing on our several ways.
 
So, some ten days ago, on such a morn, 
The Mary, like a seamew, sought her spoil 
Amongst the finny race: `twas when the corn 
Woo`d the sharp sickle, and the golden toil 
Summon`d all rustic hands to fill the horn 
Of Ceres to the brim, that brave turmoil 
Was at the prime, and Woodgate went to reap 
His harvest too, upon the broad blue deep.
 
His mast was up, his anchor heaved aboard, 
His mainsail stretching in the first gray gleams 
Of morning, for the wind. Ben`s eye was stored 
With fishes—fishes swam in all his dreams, 
And all the goodly east seem`d but a hoard 
Of silvery fishes, that in shoals and streams 
Groped into the deep dusk that fill`d the sky, 
For him to catch in meshes of his eye.
 
For Ben had the true sailor`s sanguine heart, 
And saw the future with a boy`s brave thought, 
No doubts, nor faint misgivings had a part 
In his bright visions—ay, before he caught 
His fish, he sold them in the scaly mart, 
And summ`d the net proceeds. This should have brought 
Despair upon him when his hopes were foil`d, 
But though one crop was marr`d, again he toil`d;
 
And sow`d his seed afresh.—Many foul blights 
Perish`d his hard-won gains—yet he had plann`d 
No schemes of too extravagant delights— 
No goodly houses on the Goodwin sand— 
But a small humble home, and loving nights, 
Such as his honest heart and earnest hand 
Might fairly purchase. Were these hopes too airy? 
Such as they were, they rested on thee, Mary.
 
She was the prize of many a toilsome year, 
And hardwon wages, on the perilous sea— 
Of savings ever since the shipboy`s tear 
Was shed for home, that lay beyond the lee;— 
She was purveyor for his other dear 
Mary, and for the infant yet to be 
Fruit of their married loves. These made him dote 
Upon the homely beauties of his boat,
 
Whose pitch-black hull roll`d darkly on the wave, 
No gayer than one single stripe of blue 
Could make her swarthy sides. She seem`d a slave, 
A negro among boats—that only knew 
Hardship and rugged toil—no pennons brave 
Flaunted upon the mast—but oft a few 
Dark dripping jackets flutter`d to the air, 
Ensigns of hardihood and toilsome care.
 
And when she ventured for the deep, she spread 
A tawny sail against the sunbright sky, 
Dark as a cloud that journeys overhead— 
But then those tawny wings were stretch`d to fly 
Across the wide sea desert for the bread 
Of babes and mothers—many an anxious eye 
Dwelt on her course, and many a fervent pray`r 
Invoked the Heavens to protect and spare.
 
Where is she now? The secrets of the deep 
Are dark and hidden from the human ken; 
Only the sea-bird saw the surges sweep 
Over the bark of the devoted Ben,— 
Meanwhile a widow sobs and orphans weep, 
And sighs are heard from weatherbeaten men, 
Dark sunburnt men, uncouth and rude and hairy, 
While loungers idly ask, "Where is the Mary?"
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