 | The Two Brothers, and other poems |  |
197
THE WORLD'S PEACE, AND CHRIST'S.
TWO REAL INCIDENTS.
“Peace I leave you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth,
give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be
afraid.”—John xiv. 27.
A cloudless sky—a laughing summer day—
A river gliding noiselessly and deep—
Moor'd by whose brink a little shallop lay;
Within, two weary travellers asleep.
Ha! the boat loosens, and begins to sweep
With those strong waters to their headlong fall:
The slumberers waken not, nor cry, nor weep;
It strikes—they start astonied—one wild call,
One struggle, and the tide rolls onward burying all.
A river gliding noiselessly and deep—
Moor'd by whose brink a little shallop lay;
Within, two weary travellers asleep.
Ha! the boat loosens, and begins to sweep
With those strong waters to their headlong fall:
The slumberers waken not, nor cry, nor weep;
It strikes—they start astonied—one wild call,
One struggle, and the tide rolls onward burying all.
198
A wintry ocean—a dark, rock-bound coast,
And breakers whitening near—a shatter'd sail—
A vessel battling onward, tempest-toss'd:
Aboard,—quick, hurrying footsteps, and the wail
Of women, and brave men in silence pale.
One only, with a calm, untroubled eye,
Watch'd the wild waters and the wilder gale—
The pilot's playful child; and, question'd why,
“My father's at the helm,” was her untaught reply.
And breakers whitening near—a shatter'd sail—
A vessel battling onward, tempest-toss'd:
Aboard,—quick, hurrying footsteps, and the wail
Of women, and brave men in silence pale.
One only, with a calm, untroubled eye,
Watch'd the wild waters and the wilder gale—
The pilot's playful child; and, question'd why,
“My father's at the helm,” was her untaught reply.
Hinton Martell, 1853.
| The Two Brothers, and other poems | |