There were only the three on the light-house isle,
But father had trimmed the lamp,
And set it burning a weary while
In the morning's dusk and damp.
"Long before night I'll be back," he said,
And his white sail slipped away;
Away and away to the mainland sped,
But it came not home that day.
The mother stirred on her pillow's space,
And moaned in pain and fear,
Then looked in her little daughter's face
Through the blur of a starting tear.
"Darling," she whispered, "it's piercing cold,
And the tempest is rough and wild;
And you are no laddie strong and bold,
My poor little maiden child.
"But up aloft there's the lamp to feed,
Or its flame will die in the dark,
And the sailor lose in his utmost need
The light of our islet's ark."
"I'll go," said Gretchen, "a step at a time;
Why, mother, I'm twelve years old,
And steady, and never afraid to climb,
And I've learned to do as I'm told."
Then Gretchen up to the top of the tower,
Up the icy, smooth-worn stair,
Went slowly and surely that very hour,
The sleet in her eyes and hair.
She fed the lamp, and she trimmed it well,
And its clear light glowed afar,
To warn of reefs, and of rocks to tell,
This mariner's guiding star.
And once again when the world awoke
In the dawn of a bright new day,
There was joy in the hearts of the fisher folks
Along the stormy bay.
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