THE WRECKER’ S OATH ON BARNEGAT.

ONE night mid swarthy forms I lay,

Along a wild southeastern bay,

Within a cabin rude and rough,

Formed out of drift-wood, wrecker’ s stuff,

And firelight throwing rosy flame

From up-heaped masses of the same,—

Waiting the turning of the tide

To launch the surf-boats scattered wide,

And try the fisher’ s hardy toil

For bass, and other finny spoil.

One gray old man, of whom I heard

No more than this descriptive word,

“Old Kennedy,”— he rattled on,

Of men and things long past and gone,

And seemed without one careful thought,—

Till spark to tinder some one brought

By hinting that he launched no more,

Of late, his surf-boat from the shore,

However wind and storm were rife

And stranded vessels perilled life.

“No! by the God who made this tongue!”

And up in angry force he sprung,—

“No!— never, while my head is warm,

However wild beat sea and storm,

Launch I a boat, one life to save,

If half creation finds a grave!”

A fearful oath!— I thought; and so

Thought others, for a murmur low

Ran round the circle, till at length

The wondering feeling gathered strength,

And some, who had not known him long,

Declared them words of cruel wrong,

And swore to keep no friendly troth

With one who framed so hard an oath.

“You will not, mates?” the old man said,

His words so earnest, dense, and dread

That something down my back ran cold

As at the ghostly tales of old.

“You will not? Listen, then, a word!

And if, when you have fairly heard,

You say a thoughtless oath I swore,

I never fish beside you more!

“You know me, mates,— at least the most,—

From Barnegat, on Jersey coast.

’ Tis time you listened something more,

That drove me to another shore.

“Twelve years ago, at noon of life,

I had a fond and faithful wife;

Two children,— boy and girl; a patch;

A drift-wood cabin roofed with thatch;

And thought myself the happiest man

The coast had known since time began.

“One night a large ship drove ashore

Not half a mile beyond my door.

I saw the white surf breaking far;

I saw her beating on the bar;

I knew she could not live one hour

By wood and iron’ s strongest power.

“I was alone, except my boy,—

Sixteen,— my wife’ s best hope and joy;

And who can doubt, that is not mad,

He was the proudest pride I had!

I let him take the vacant oar;

I took him with me from the shore;

I let him try help save a life:

I drowned him,— and it killed my wife!

“Somebody stole a cask or bale,

At least so ran the pleasant tale.

And while my boy was lying dead,

My wife’ s last breath as yet unfled,

The city papers reeked with chat

Of‘ pirate bands on Barnegat.’

My name was branded as a thief,

When I was almost mad with grief;

And what d’ ye think they made me feel,

When the last falsehood ground its heel,—

‘ I had rowed out, that night, to steal!’

“No! if I ever row again

To save the lives of perilled men,

Body and soul at once go down,

And Heaven forget me as I drown!”