Where the Pelican Builds
and Other Poems

Up North

Mary Hannay Foott

INTO Thy hands let me fall, O Lord,—
    Not into the hands of men,—

And she thinned the ranks of the savage horde
    Till they shrank to the mangrove fen.

In a rudderless boat, with a scanty store
    Of food for the fated three,—
With her babe and her stricken servitor
    She fled to the open sea.

Oh, days of dolor and nights of drouth,
    While she watched for a sail in vain,
Or the tawny tinge of a river mouth,
    Or the rush of the tropic rain.

The valiant woman! Her feeble oar
    Sufficed, and her fervent prayer
Was heard, though she reached but a barren shore,
    And died with her darling there.

For the demons of murder and foul disgrace
    On her hearthstone dared not light;
But the Angel of Womanhood held the place,
    And its site is a holy site.

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