The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[238]
     As the roaring gale, like the stroke of a flail,
Smote the boat on its starboard side.
     The Shoalsmnen looked, but saw alone
Dark films of rain-cloud slantwise blown,
     Wild rocks lit up by the lightning's glare,
The strife and torment of sea and air.

Goody Cole looked out from her door:
     The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone,
Scarcely she saw the Head of the Boar
     Toss the foam from tusks of stone.
She clasped her hands with a grip of pain,
     The tear on her cheek was not of rain:
‘They are lost,’ she muttered, “boat and crew!
     Lord, forgive me! my words were true!”

Suddenly seaward swept the squall;
     The low sun smote through cloudy rack;
The Shoals stood clear in the light, and all
     The trend of the coast lay hard and black.
But far and wide as eye could reach,
     No life was seen upon wave or beach;
The boat that went out at morning never
     Sailed back again into Hampton River.

O mower, lean on thy bended snath,
     Look from the meadows green and low:
The wind of the sea is a waft of death,
     The waves are singing a song of woe I
By silent river, by moaning sea,
     Long and vain shall thy watching be:
Never again shall the sweet voice call,
     Never the white hand rise and fall!