Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE SAILOR'S MOTHER, by ROBERT SOUTHEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Sir, for the love of god, some small relief Last Line: It only leads me to that rest the sooner. Subject(s): Grief; Mothers; Sailing & Sailors; Travel; Weariness; Sorrow; Sadness; Journeys; Trips; Fatigue | ||||||||
WOMAN. SIR, for the love of God, some small relief To a poor woman! TRAVELLER. Whither are you bound? 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, No house for miles around us, and the way Dreary and wild. The evening wind already Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very sun, Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! WOMAN. Ay, sir 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath; Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, For the way is long before me, and my feet, God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. TRAVELLER. Nay, nay, cheer up! a little food and rest Will comfort you; and then your journey's end Will make amends for all. You shake your head, And weep. Is it some evil business, then, That leads you from your home? WOMAN. Sir, I am going To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt In the late action, and in the hospital Dying, I fear me, now. TRAVELLER. Perhaps your fears Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost There may be still enough for comfort left; An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart To keep life warm, and he may live to talk With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude Makes the maim'd sailor happy. WOMAN. 'Tis not that, An arm or legI could have borne with that. 'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing Which bursts and burns, that hurt him. Something, sir, They do not use on board our English ships, It is so wicked. TRAVELLER. Rascals! a mean art Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain! WOMAN. Yes, sir! and they should show no mercy to them For making use of such unchristian arms. I had a letter from the hospital, He got some friend to write it,and he tells me That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live To see this wretched day;they tell me, sir, There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed, 'Tis a hard journey that I go upon To such a dismal end. TRAVELLER. He yet may live. But if the worst should chance, why you must bear The will of Heaven with patience. Were it not Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself, You will not in unpitied poverty, Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country, Amid the triumph of her victory, Remembers those who paid its price of blood, And with a noble charity relieves The widow and the orphan. WOMAN. God reward them! God bless them! it will help me in my age; But sir, it will not pay me for my child! TRAVELLER. Was he your only child? WOMAN. My only one, The stay and comfort of my widowhood, A dear good boy! When first he went to sea, I felt what it would come tosomething told me I should be childless soon. But tell me, sir, If it be true that for a hurt like his There is no cure? Please God to spare his life, Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! I can remember there was a blind man Lived in our village, one from his youth up Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, And he had none to tend on him so well As I would tend my boy! TRAVELLER. Of this be sure, His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help The land affords, as rightly is his due, Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? Was a seafaring life his early choice? WOMAN. No, sir. Poor fellow, he was wise enough To be content at home, and 'twas a home As comfortable, sir, even though I say it, As any in the country. He was left A little boy when his poor father died, Just old enough to totter by himself And call his mother's name. We two were all, And as we were not left quite destitute, We bore up well. In the summer time I worked Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, And in long winter nights my spinning wheel Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours, too, And never felt distress. So he grew up A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed; I taught him well; there was not in the parish A child who said his prayers more regular, Or answered readier through his catechism. If I had foreseen this! But 'tis a blessing We don't know what we're born to! TRAVELLER. But how came it He chose to be a sailor? WOMAN. You shall hear, sir; As he grew up he used to watch the birds In the corn,child's work you know, and easily done. 'Tis an idle sort of task; so he built up A little hut of wicker-work and clay Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. And then he took, for very idleness, To making traps to catch the plunderers: All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make, Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly, And I,poor, foolish woman! I was pleased To see the boy so handy. You may guess What followed, sir, from this unlucky skill. He did what he should not when he was older: I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught In wiring hares at last, and had his choice The prison or the ship. TRAVELLER. The choice at least Was kindly left him, and for broken laws This was, methinks, no heavy punishment. WOMAN. So I was told, sir. And I tried to think so. But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child, Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start And think of my poor boy, tossing about Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd To feel that it was hard to take him from me For such a little fault. But he was wrong, Oh, very wrong,a murrain on his traps! See what they've brought him to! TRAVELLER. Well! well! take comfort, He will be taken care of if he lives; And should you lose your child, this is a country Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent To weep for him in want. WOMAN. Sir, I shall want No succour long. In the common course of years I soon must be at rest; and 'tis a comfort, When grief is hard upon me, to reflect It only leads me to that rest the sooner. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VALUE IN MOUNTAINS: 10 by KENNETH REXROTH IMPERIAL NOSTALGIAS: 4 by CESAR VALLEJO BLACK SHEEP by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON TIRED TIM by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE WEARINESS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW NEURASTENIA by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON MICHAEL ANGELO by AUGUSTE BARBIER BISHOP BRUNO by ROBERT SOUTHEY |
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