death clenched fast Tremble, clothed with darkness
round about, and scarce draw breath, Scarce lift eyes
up toward the light that saves not, scarce may cast Thought or prayer
up, caught and trammelled in the snare of death. Not as sea-mews
cling and laugh or sun their plumes and sleep Cling and cower the
wild night's waifs of shipwreck, blind with fear, Where the fierce
reef scarce yields foothold
that a bird might keep, And the clamorous darkness
deadens eye and deafens ear. Yet beyond their helpless hearing,
out of hopeless sight, Saviours, armed and girt upon with strength of
heart, fare
forth, Sire and daughter, hand on oar and face against the night,
Maid and man whose names are beacons ever to the
North. Nearer now; but all the madness of the storming surf Hounds
and roars them back; but roars
and hounds them back in vain: As a pleasure-skiff
may graze the lake-embanking turf,
So the boat that bears them grates the rock where-toward they strain.
Dawn as fierce and haggard as the face of night scarce guides Toward
the cries that rent and clove the darkness, crying for aid, Hours on
hours, across the
engorged reluctance of the tides, Sire
and daughter, high-souled man and mightier-hearted maid. Not the
bravest land that
ever breasted war's grim sea, Hurled her foes back harried on the
lowlands whence they came, Held her own and smote her smiters down,
while such durst be, Shining northward,
shining southward, as the
aurorean flame, Not our mother, not Northumberland, brought ever
forth,
Though no southern shore may match the sons that kiss her mouth,
Children worthier all the birthright
given of the
ardent north Where the fire of hear
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