Narrative and Legendary Poems, Complete






THE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERY.

In Young's Chronicles of Massachusetts Bay front 1623 to 1636 may be found Anthony Thacher's Narrative of his Shipwreck. Thacher was Avery's companion and survived to tell the tale. Mather's Magnalia, III. 2, gives further Particulars of Parson Avery's End, and suggests the title of the poem.

     When the reaper's task was ended, and the
     summer wearing late,
     Parson Avery sailed from Newbury, with his wife
     and children eight,
     Dropping down the river-harbor in the shallop
     "Watch and Wait."

     Pleasantly lay the clearings in the mellow summer-
     morn,
     With the newly planted orchards dropping their
     fruits first-born,
     And the home-roofs like brown islands amid a sea
     of corn.

     Broad meadows reached out seaward the tided
     creeks between,
     And hills rolled wave-like inland, with oaks and
     walnuts green;—
     A fairer home, a goodlier land, his eyes had never seen.

     Yet away sailed Parson Avery, away where duty led,
     And the voice of God seemed calling, to break the
     living bread
     To the souls of fishers starving on the rocks of
     Marblehead.

     All day they sailed: at nightfall the pleasant land-
     breeze died,
     The blackening sky, at midnight, its starry lights
     denied,
     And far and low the thunder of tempest prophesied.

     Blotted out were all the coast-lines, gone were rock,
     and wood, and sand;
     Grimly anxious stood the skipper with the rudder
     in his hand,
     And questioned of the darkness what was sea and
     what was land.

     And the preacher heard his dear ones, nestled
     round him, weeping sore,
     "Never heed, my little children! Christ is walking
     on before;
     To the pleasant land of heaven, where the sea shall
     be no more."

     All at once the great cloud parted, like a curtain
     drawn aside,
     To let down the torch of lightning on the terror
     far and wide;
     And the thunder and the whirlwind together smote
     the tide.

     There was wailing in the shallop, woman's wail
     and man's despair,
     A crash of breaking timbers on the rocks so sharp
     and bare,
     And, through it all, the murmur of Father Avery's
     prayer.

     From his struggle in the darkness with the wild
     waves and the blast,
     On a rock, where every billow broke above him as
     it passed,
     Alone, of all his household, the man of God was
     cast.

     There a comrade heard him praying, in the pause
     of wave and wind
     "All my own have gone before me, and I linger
     just behind;
     Not for life I ask, but only for the rest Thy
     ransomed find!

     "In this night of death I challenge the promise of
     Thy word!—
     Let me see the great salvation of which mine ears
     have heard!—
     Let me pass from hence forgiven, through the
     grace of Christ, our Lord!

     "In the baptism of these waters wash white my
     every sin,
     And let me follow up to Thee my household and
     my kin!
     Open the sea-gate of Thy heaven, and let me enter
     in!"

     When the Christian sings his death-song, all the
     listening heavens draw near,
     And the angels, leaning over the walls of crystal,
     hear
     How the notes so faint and broken swell to music
     in God's ear.

     The ear of God was open to His servant's last
     request;
     As the strong wave swept him downward the sweet
     hymn upward pressed,
     And the soul of Father Avery went, singing, to its
     rest.

     There was wailing on the mainland, from the rocks
     of Marblehead;
     In the stricken church of Newbury the notes of
     prayer were read;
     And long, by board and hearthstone, the living
     mourned the dead.

     And still the fishers outbound, or scudding from
     the squall,
     With grave and reverent faces, the ancient tale
     recall,
     When they see the white waves breaking on the
     Rock of Avery's Fall!

     1808.

All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg