Earth's gentle daughter opes the eastern gate
Of heaven, and casts her silvery beams along
Their crests.
The distant sails pass glorified
Along the bright horizon, and the stars,
Those diamond sparklers, seem to sink
Farther into the distance, smilingly.
Light, beauty, peace and rythmic harmony
Are on the deep, but we must sleep to-night,
And then to-morrow take our Sabbath rest,
Listening to hear thy voice of calm, O sea.
So the kind ocean chaunts a lullaby
And we sink down to find a realm of dreams More silver-tinted than the moonlit wave.
Morn breaks in beauty o'er the wide expanse,
And we come forth renewed by slumber sweet,
To hail the Sabbath on the dancing sea.
Man's rest is this, but the insensate steam
May toil for man and bear him on his way.
We seat us silent on the shaded deck
And feel the soothing influence of the hour.
Afar are we from all earth's jarring noise,
But wondrous near to Power infinite,
Perfected Beauty, tender, healing Love.
But vast as is our lofty, glorious fane,
No room is here for priest to minister,
No need is here for sounding organ tones;
The sea our priest, the waves, the breeze our choir. Said one of old, "Though I should take
The morning's wing, and dwell afar, afar,
Even to the utmost parts of the great sea,
Thy hand shall lead, thy right hand hold me now
And evermore."
But see the breeze has died,
The billows, slumbrous, sink into a calm;
The speeding Norman cleaves the silvery sheet,
And from the bow we gaze down in the deep,
And see the glad sea creatures gleam and dart.
The scaly fish, the weird Medusa strange,
With frail tentacles stretching far behind,
Expanding and contracting fringéd disk
Campanulate,―sinking and rising oft,
And seeming often to reverse his form,
And sink his rising dome into a cap
Reaching up fairy fringes toward the sun.
The little Mother Cary darts along,
Skimming the wave to find the morsel sweet
God furnishes to all His creatures dear.
"Where dwells the little bird?" we question then;
And the wise seaman answers, "On the deep."
We smile and ask no more, but well we know
The brooding mother and the nestling weak
Must have some resting-place secure in marsh
Or reedy shallow, or on rocky height.
When tempests rage, and waves like mountains rise,
This little Petrel can their fury brave,
And pipes his glee, like spirit of the storm.
No fear has he of wind, nor bounding wave,
Nor mighty gallant ship, nor mariner.
And canst thou teach us then, this Sabbath eve,
One lesson more of trust and cheerful faith,
Ere the bright day of joyance is no more
And we resign us yet again to sleep?
For see, the setting sun even now tinges
With tender glory all the western sea.
Nestling, we gather at the vessel's prow,
And in hushed rapture drink the draught of joy.
Day fades again, and night brings forth her stars,
Those glorious watchmen, those most ancient orbs
Which gleamed and sang together, when our earth
First rose, by Word divine, from chaos dark.
There mounts the winged Pegasus as of old,
And there the greater and the lesser Bear
Guarding the pole. The king Cepheus and
His stately spouse, and captive daughter dear
Are radiant, as when in distant age
The fabled monarch reared his shining throne,
And thus embalmed his story 'mong the stars.
Skimming the sea's dim marge, but soaring high,
Far toward the zenith, brilliant Scorpio curves,
Telling of summer's heat in tropic lands.
Down the bright galaxy's mysterious way
Darts the fair Cygnet with her mystic cross-
Symbol of faith, endurance and of hope.
But the night deepens, and chill ocean winds
Come warning us to find safe refuge warm,
For rest and sleep and dream. To-morrow's sun
Will see us anchored by the city vast,
To hear again man's myriad nonsense noises.
So farewell stars, fair sea, and gentle friends;
The Sabbath day upon the deep is o'er.
In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, a nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. The child looked curiously at the spectacle of death and then inquiringly into the old man's face. "You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?" said he, adding, "We don't, either."
We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and
The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill;
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call;
The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all.
We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go,
Nor why we're left to wonder still; nor why we do not know.
But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day—
Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of
Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be;
Yet oh, how sweet it is to us, this life we live and
Then might they say these vanished ones-and blessed is the thought!
"So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may tell ye naught;
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