Full with heavy fate, and joyous as the birds that whirl?

Nought in heaven or earth, if not one mortal-moulded maiden,

Nought if not the soul that glorifies a northland girl.

Not the rocks that break may baffle, not the reefs that thwart

Stay the ravenous rapture of the waves that crowd and leap;

[Pg 167]

Scarce their flashing laughter shows the hunger of their heart,

Scarce their lion-throated roar the wrath at heart they keep.

Child and man and woman in the grasp of 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.

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