I
The Black Boars crouch, a huddling pile,
Without York-Harbor half a mile;
And there, at ebbing of the tides,
They wallow, sunning their shaggy sides,
And pant and grumble all the while.
About them the flat sea is broke,
And fleecy foam-clouds, white like smoke,
Lift heavenward and then landward drift
Athwart the meadow, where they sift
Soft rain o'er the driver and his yoke.
"Wh-hoish! my beauties!" Martin said,
"Cheer up, my bonny one; courage, Ned!
Another hour is all I ask,
But we must haste to end our task,--
For the Boars bode storm ere day be dead."
Far down the river, beyond the bridge,
Ruth caught their grunting, but a ridge
Of yellow sand-dunes hid the view;
Blue sky she saw, and sunshine, too,
That laughed on her flowering window-ledge.
Work-weary she arose, pushed back
Her girlish ringlets thick and black,
And peering 'neath one shading hand,
Perceived upon the river sand
Her Elsie's barrow and small track.
The tall clock told that it grew late;
Once more she twirled her wheel of fate;
The soft wool stretched and brake in two,
The kitten caught it as it flew,--
And chiding her, Ruth sought the gate.
The sea lay motionless; afar
White smacks were tacking toward the bar;
Adown the hill filed home-bound herds;
She watched a few fast-flying birds,
And following, missed the evening star.
With sudden creak of the weather-vane,
Wind-scuds, with gray squalls in their train,
Came flocking from the misty south,
Throwing a gloom o'er the harbor mouth,--
A half-felt fear throbbed through her brain.
The river was still a line of light,
Unflecked save by one dory's flight,
That toward the darkened offing sped;
"Thank God!" the mother fondly said,
"It's none of mine helms that boat tonight!"
For suddenly it seemed to her
As if the Black Boars nearer were;
A sound of laughter wandered by,
And echoed back a low, sad cry,
That sighed in the poplars, now astir.
II
Now Martin from the meadow strode,
His oxen bent 'neath their clover load;
Big rain-drops pattered on the barn,
From the spinning-wheel trailed tangled yarn,--
He called, then sauntered to the road.
Down dropped night's curtains; hand in hand
Roamed floods of the air and sea and land;
And by the lightning's fitful glows
Stalked from the sea huge, hooded rows
Of breakers, thundering up the strand.
III
Snarled, drifting lily-pads still told
An ebbing tide, and on it rolled
A boat, Ruth tugging at the oars,--
Too late she gave ear to the Boars,
And pierced the treachery they foretold.
Each wind-blast bore the name she cried;
The wreckers from the shore descried
Her ghostly figure, and were afraid,
For to each other low thy said:
"The Boar-King claims tonight a bride!"
The pounding surf now sounds more near;
Her straining eyes in the gloom austere
Shape flitting pairs of eyeballs bright,
And rude, rough hands from left and right
Her garments plucking, first wake fear.
The swamping boat now rolls, now flies,
A shuttlecock between sea and skies;
And toppling giddily in air,
Below she sees the wild Boars' lair,
And looks straight into their bloodshot eyes.
IV
Gray broke the drizzly dawn, and found
Full half the sleepless town's-folk bound
Along the streaming ocean front,
Some wading, some in skiff or punt,
Searching the sand and the marshes drowned.
Sad was the scene it woke to show:
Two shattered boats by the Boars crushed low;
The father, stricken, found them there,--
Like silkweed shone the tangled hair
That bound together their breasts of snow.
