Long did the rescued pilot tell,
When grey hairs o'er his forehead fell,
While those around would hear and weep,
That fearful judgment of the deep.
"Come to thy God in time,"
He read his native chime:
"Youth, manhood, old age, past,
Come to thy God at last."
Still when the storm of Bottreaux's waves
Is waking in his weedy caves,
Those bells, that sullen surges hide,
Peal their deep tones beneath the tide.
"Come to thy God in time,"
Thus saith the ocean chime:
"Storm, whirlwind, billow past,
Come to thy God at last."
Flowers of the Ocean.
Call us not weeds, we are flowers of the sea.
For lovely, and bright, and gay-tinted are we;
Our blush is as deep as the rose of thy bowers,
Then call us not weeds, we are ocean's gay flowers.
Not nursed like the plants of a summer parterre,
When gales are but sighs of an evening air;
Our exquisite, fragile, and delicate forms
Are nursed by the ocean, and rocked by its storms.
The Sea Bird's Home.
Oh! where doth the sea-bird find a home
When the loud winds lash the whitened foam,
And the rage of waters with booming swell
Is heard like the the tones of a demon's yell?
Is it far in the depths of some inland bower,
Away from the scene of destruction's power?
Not there is the sea bird's home.
When the fire-winged lightning flashes by,
And the thunder rolls o'er the blackened sky,
When terror sits brooding o'er air and earth
As if to hail a demon's birth,
Away, away on the shrieking wind,
Leaving the thoughts of fear behind
Doth the hardy sea bird roam.
Oh! where doth the sea bird find a rest
When the sun sinks down in the painted west,
When the amber, touched with the crimson, shines
Like treasures from gold and ruby mines,
When the lucid streams of twilight flow
O'er the pictured gardens in air that glow,
Oh, where doth the sea bird rest?
Not on the topmost bough of tree,
Away from the sound of his native sea;
But like a king on his native throne
He seateth him; and there alone,
Watching the wrecks of grandeur made
When the storm fiend o'er the dark waters played Doth the sea bird find a rest.
And where doth the warrior sea bird sleep?
Doth he make his bed on the castle steep,
In the ruined battlements ivied o'er,
Where pride burnt high in the days of yore-
Is it there in some man-deserted place
Where the hemlock chokes up the moated space?
Not there doth the sea bird sleep.
In the caverned rocks by the ocean's side
Which time and tempest have long defied,
The rampart strong, which no arm may break,
Though hosts of furies to wrath awake,
Securely housed in its rocky breast
As souls in a heavenly power that rest,
Doth the sea bird find repose.
I Wet Sheet.
A wet sheet, and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While like the eagle, free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lea.
O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry,
But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free,
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud,
And hark! the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud my boys,
The lightning flashing free,
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.
And such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;
Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us,
And leaves us at eve on the bleak shore alone.
Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning
The close of our day, the calm eve of our night!— Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning.
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.
Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first waked a new life through his
And his soul-like the wood that grows precious in burning
Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame!
Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy,
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled-
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
The Red Fisherman.
The Abbot arose, and closed his book,
And don'd his sandal shoon,
And wandered forth alone, to look
Upon the silver moon:
A starlight sky was o'er his head,
A quiet breeze around;
And the flowers a thrilling fragrance spread,
And the waves a soothing sound.
It was not an hour or a scene, for aught
But love and calm delight;
Yet the holy man had a cloud thought
On his wrinkled brow that night.
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