But Mary Winslow, as she sat over her sewing, dropped now and then a tear
down on her work for the loss of her sister and counselor and long-tried
friend. From the lower part of the ship floated up, at intervals,
snatches of an old English ditty that Margery was singing while she moved
to and fro about her work, one of those genuine English melodies, full of
a rich, strange mournfulness blent with a soothing pathos:
"Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages."
The air was familiar, and Mary Winslow, dropping her work in her lap,
involuntarily joined in it:
"Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat,
To thee the reed is as the oak."
"There goes a great tree on shore!" quoth little Love Winslow, clapping
her hands. "Dost hear, mother? I've been counting the strokes--fifteen--
and then crackle! crackle! crackle! and down it comes!"
"Peace, darling," said Mary Winslow; "hear what old Margery is singing
below:
"Fear no more the lightning's flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash--
Thou hast finished joy and moan.
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