 | [Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir for MDCCCXXXVII |  |
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THE SHIPWRECKED SAILOR BOY RELATING HIS STORY.
Child of the Ocean! thou comest to tell
Of the dangers that thee and thy bark befel:
Of the wild tornado's awful sweep,
Whose rude voice wailed o'er the shadowy deep.
Thou comest to speak of the turbulent wave—
Of thy joyful escape from a yawning grave:
Thy lip is parched, and thy cheek is pale—
Sailor boy, sailor boy! tell us thy tale!
Of the dangers that thee and thy bark befel:
Of the wild tornado's awful sweep,
Whose rude voice wailed o'er the shadowy deep.
Thou comest to speak of the turbulent wave—
Of thy joyful escape from a yawning grave:
Thy lip is parched, and thy cheek is pale—
Sailor boy, sailor boy! tell us thy tale!
“I come, with the sea-foam yet salt on my brow,
From the desolate deck, and the broken prow:
In my ear is the creak of the shivered mast,
And the sail's shrill quiver, when torn by the blast:
The shrieks of the dying my heart impress,
Sent up through the midnight loneliness:—
I feel the rush of the mountain surge,
Whence the hands of the sinking in vain emerge.
From the desolate deck, and the broken prow:
In my ear is the creak of the shivered mast,
And the sail's shrill quiver, when torn by the blast:
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Sent up through the midnight loneliness:—
I feel the rush of the mountain surge,
Whence the hands of the sinking in vain emerge.
“I come from yon restless and bounding main,
From a scene of death, of despair, and pain;
I have seen true hearts in the wave go down,
Richer than jewels of high renown;
Richer, in love, than the sea-washed gold,
Where the coral shines over wealth untold:
Where the pearl and the ruby unvalued lie,
Shut, by the deep, from the glorious sky.
From a scene of death, of despair, and pain;
I have seen true hearts in the wave go down,
Richer than jewels of high renown;
Richer, in love, than the sea-washed gold,
Where the coral shines over wealth untold:
Where the pearl and the ruby unvalued lie,
Shut, by the deep, from the glorious sky.
“One evening, the sun, in the ominous West,
Sank in blood-red clouds to his place of rest:
His pavilion around him was crimson and black,
Where the lightnings ran in their fiery track;
There were lurid shadows along the deep,
Where the winds had folded their wings to sleep—
And the calm which engenders the storm was there,
Heavy and thick in the motionless air.
Sank in blood-red clouds to his place of rest:
His pavilion around him was crimson and black,
Where the lightnings ran in their fiery track;
There were lurid shadows along the deep,
Where the winds had folded their wings to sleep—
And the calm which engenders the storm was there,
Heavy and thick in the motionless air.
“Then came the tempest!—and piping loud,
The hurricane howled in the ragged shroud—
The mast like a reed by its force was bent,
As through gloom and darkness we onward went—
The dash of the billows, the shrieks of fear,
The prayers of the lost ones yet haunt mine ear—
But they passed away, like a zephyr's breath,
To the still and remorseless caves of death.
The hurricane howled in the ragged shroud—
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As through gloom and darkness we onward went—
The dash of the billows, the shrieks of fear,
The prayers of the lost ones yet haunt mine ear—
But they passed away, like a zephyr's breath,
To the still and remorseless caves of death.
“Morn came at last—and ye see the wreck,
In the hazy distance a desolate speck;
There the sign of distress has been hung and lost,
And hands toward Heaven imploringly toss'd;
And the God who heareth and answereth prayer,
Hushed the angry waters that bounded there;
Yet destruction to all but me befel—
I alone am left, the sad tale to tell!”
In the hazy distance a desolate speck;
There the sign of distress has been hung and lost,
And hands toward Heaven imploringly toss'd;
And the God who heareth and answereth prayer,
Hushed the angry waters that bounded there;
Yet destruction to all but me befel—
I alone am left, the sad tale to tell!”
Philadelphia.
266
ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF BISHOP WHITE.
From the watch-tower of Zion a Soldier is gone,
Whose shield in the sunbeams of righteousness shone;
Whose mild, warning voice among multitudes fell—
Who loved of the glories of Heaven to tell.
He has gone to enjoy them!—where age is unknown,
Where Sin has no dwelling, and Pain has no throne;
Rewarded with recompense rich, he is blest,
In the land of delight—in a mansion of rest.
Whose shield in the sunbeams of righteousness shone;
Whose mild, warning voice among multitudes fell—
Who loved of the glories of Heaven to tell.
He has gone to enjoy them!—where age is unknown,
Where Sin has no dwelling, and Pain has no throne;
Rewarded with recompense rich, he is blest,
In the land of delight—in a mansion of rest.
He has fought the good fight—he has finished the faith—
He has burst from the thraldom of sorrow and death;
From sickness, from weeping, from funeral hours,
He hath soared to the region of sunshine and flowers;
And his eyes, unbeclouded, are gazing abroad
On the river of life, and the city of God;
On scenes which no pencil or pen can portray—
Where the splendours of Heaven unceasingly play.
He has burst from the thraldom of sorrow and death;
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He hath soared to the region of sunshine and flowers;
And his eyes, unbeclouded, are gazing abroad
On the river of life, and the city of God;
On scenes which no pencil or pen can portray—
Where the splendours of Heaven unceasingly play.
Shall we mourn for the Patriarch who feared not the tomb,
That his spirit is blest with the absence of gloom?
That he totters no more on the verge of the grave—
That he leans upon One who is mighty to save?
Whose smile cheered the pathway he tremblingly trod,
To the beautiful gates of the palace of God,
Whose arm was his stay, as triumphant he rose,
To rejoice in the realms of eternal repose.
That his spirit is blest with the absence of gloom?
That he totters no more on the verge of the grave—
That he leans upon One who is mighty to save?
Whose smile cheered the pathway he tremblingly trod,
To the beautiful gates of the palace of God,
Whose arm was his stay, as triumphant he rose,
To rejoice in the realms of eternal repose.
Ah, no! could we see the bright waters that shine,
Neath the fair tree of life with its fruitage divine;
Could we hear the sweet anthems that gladden the air,
And tell that the Ransomed are glorified there,
We should sorrow no more; but for those that remain,
Whose garments are washed in the blood of the slain,
We should hail the loved promise of God, in his word—
Thrice blest are the dying, who die in the Lord!
Neath the fair tree of life with its fruitage divine;
Could we hear the sweet anthems that gladden the air,
And tell that the Ransomed are glorified there,
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Whose garments are washed in the blood of the slain,
We should hail the loved promise of God, in his word—
Thrice blest are the dying, who die in the Lord!
Philadelphia.
275
THE TRIBUNAL OF THE INQUISITION.
Thou hast stern judges, maiden! yet thine eye,
In sweet solicitude, is heavenward cast,
Whence help alone can come. So, to the hills,
The everlasting hills, where Zion's throne
Arose in majesty, the Tried of old
Sought for their sole deliverer. Thus do thou!
Thou, on whose anxious forehead lines of care
Pass like the cloud-shade o'er a wreath of snow.
Trust thou in God, distressed one! and thy heart,
Filled with a holy courage, shall be blest
With that rapt sense of peace which martyrs know.
Trust thou in God! and if thy soul hath felt
His presence ever, and thy heart his love,
Thou shalt be ransomed!—though unnumbered walls
Of brass and adamant should hem thee round.
In sweet solicitude, is heavenward cast,
Whence help alone can come. So, to the hills,
The everlasting hills, where Zion's throne
Arose in majesty, the Tried of old
Sought for their sole deliverer. Thus do thou!
Thou, on whose anxious forehead lines of care
Pass like the cloud-shade o'er a wreath of snow.
Trust thou in God, distressed one! and thy heart,
Filled with a holy courage, shall be blest
With that rapt sense of peace which martyrs know.
Trust thou in God! and if thy soul hath felt
His presence ever, and thy heart his love,
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Of brass and adamant should hem thee round.
The just by faith shall live. If thou art pure,
Repose thy soul upon a Saviour's word,
Nor fear what man can do. So, when the hours
Of thy dark thraldom end, a child of light,
To bliss translated, thou mayst join the throng
Of sainted spirits robed in shining white,
Who walk in beauty with the sinless Lamb.
Repose thy soul upon a Saviour's word,
Nor fear what man can do. So, when the hours
Of thy dark thraldom end, a child of light,
To bliss translated, thou mayst join the throng
Of sainted spirits robed in shining white,
Who walk in beauty with the sinless Lamb.
Philadelphia.
| [Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir for MDCCCXXXVII | |