THE FLOOD

Sing, warbler, from the green-decked groves
Of canyon, creek and river,
Sing sadly, now, in accents low,
A kindred wail, for friends beloved
Will haunt these shores forever,

Twilight had deepened o'er the town
Upon that fatal even',
The moon, half gone, looked calmly down,
Mortals to sweet repose had gone
The issue was with Heaven.

Down in the grove, along the streams,
The camp-fires dimly smolder,
On grassy bed each weary head
Is slumbering in unconscious dreams-
At once the wind grew colder.

At once the rain in torrents fell-
Heaven's windows all were open-
Like fiend escaped the bounds of hell,
Rushed on - the spell was broken.

Like chaff before a mighty wind
Down went each cottage dwelling,
Respecting none, the waves swept on,
Grim death before - a sea behind
Still high and higher swelling.

Day had dawned at last, oh, direful scene,
Night's fading folds uncover-
As dawns the day, far, far away,
Where late were valleys robed in green,
Dark waves are sweeping over.

"Help! Help!" is heard on every hand,
But all in vain their calling:
Frail craft of wood not long withstood,
For mixed with drift and mud and sand,
The waters were appalling.

A voice came o'er the watery waste,
From out an elm tree, crying-
To stem the tide brave horsemen tried-
Still came the plaintiff call, "make haste,
Of terror, I am dying.

Five hundred dollars we will give
To him who will deliver
This maiden fair with golden hair;
Thus spake the crowd, but none could live
Who stemmed that roaring river.

Half clad, and chilled, did many wait,
Though wounded, torn and bleeding,
In friendly bough the hours drag slow;
At last they thank the hand of fate-
The waters are receding.

For many hours a lady held
Her grasp on sapling slender;
Above the tide, close to her side,
Though swift and dark the waters swelled,
She held her infant tender.

One more, the saddest of the scene,
Of one out-vied another,
Mother and child, mile after mile,
Drifted; at last the turbid stream
Engulfed both child and mother.

"Tis said that 'round her darling child
She wrapped her only cover,
Unheeding pain through wind and rain;
But useless all, the waters wild
Were soon to sweep above her.

Death is unwelcome, though he comes
Where friends smoothe dying pillow
And bid goodbye with tear and sigh,
Amid the pleasant scenes at home,
Safe from the raging billow;

But, ah, how dreadful, while they slept
The dark and seething river-
Unlooked for doom came all too soon,
The cold, cold billows o'er them swept
And stilled each pulse forever.

Farewell, and be a requiem said
For one and all who perished:
Sweet by your sleep though buried deep
'Neath sand, or in the church-yard laid,
Your memory shall be cherished.

-- Cumminsford, Apr. 23, 1885

(The Pilgrim Bard was the nom de plume of Scott Cummins.)