Nestled below the hollow bank,
In the rugged northern land,
Where the breakers leap and the wild winds sweep
Over the long grey sand;
Where the great tides' ceaseless ebb and flow
Leave curving lines of foam,
Amid rush and sedge, on a rocky ledge,
The fisherman made his home.
Forever through blaze of noonday,
Through midnight's solemn sleep,
Through morn's soft ray, and gloaming grey,
Thrilled the music of the deep;
And the foam-flakes flew on the breezes,
And rested, where sparse and thin,
The grasses shook in the sheltered nook.
As the flood-tide thundered in.
She stands in the lowly doorway,
The girl with the wild blue eyes,
The floating hair, and the startled air,
And the blush that deepens and flies,
Whenever a sudden footstep
Treads the path o'er the turfy down,
Or the bells peal out, or a laugh or a shout
Rings up from the little town.
She goes not with the red-cloaked girls
To the pier at evening tide,
Nor lingers to watch for the herring catch,
On the staithes at the harbor side;
Nor wanders among the sand-hills,
Where the sea-pinks creep and cling,
Nor to lanes where they know the violets blow,
And the merry bluebells ring.
But ever she keeps her vigil
By her father's lonely cot,
With a listening ear — what would it hear?
Fixed eyes, that strain for — what?
And always the frail, soft fingers
Toy with a strange love-token;
A seaweed spray from the rocky bay,
Its trails all dried and broken.
They talk sometimes in whispers,
Among the fisher-folk.
Of a stranger who came with a foreign name,
To win a heart he broke;
And one would tell he watched them,
On the sands-reach by the heath,
And saw him twist, round the curls he kissed,
The sea-bloom's coral wreath.
Fast fled that golden summer.
Oh, many a lonely year,
Through change and loss, through care and cross,
Has the pale girl wasted here!
For him who wooed, and won, and went,
Fair promise on his tongue;
Nor ever returned to the faith he spurned,
To the heart his falsehood wrung.
Yet still she keeps the seaweed,
That as his pledge he gave,
That happy night, in the soft rose light,
At the margin of the wave;
And ever she waits and watches,
For him who will never more
Trace the winding road, too often trode,
To the cottage on the shore.
And the few life leaves to love her,
No longer strive to win
The wildered brain from the sweet, dull pain,
It so long has wandered in;
Better they think to let her keep Her poor clim dream of trust,
Till at last at rest, she bears on her breast,
The seaweed and the dust.