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165
THE THIRD DAY AT SEA.
Three days at sea! The great-souled waves
Have borne us on their crest,
And shrill-voiced winds from Eol's cave,
Have piped us to our rest,
And as our ship, with foot of fire,
Doth tread the surges cold,
And leave behind a glittering scroll,
Like banner-staff unroll'd,
The mighty monsters of the main
Pause in their boisterous play;
Or, glancing through the window'd brine,
With terror haste away.
Have borne us on their crest,
And shrill-voiced winds from Eol's cave,
Have piped us to our rest,
And as our ship, with foot of fire,
Doth tread the surges cold,
And leave behind a glittering scroll,
Like banner-staff unroll'd,
The mighty monsters of the main
Pause in their boisterous play;
Or, glancing through the window'd brine,
With terror haste away.
Three days at sea! I little thought
'Twould be so hard to say
Farewell to home and cherished ones,
And boldly launch away;
For from my childhood I had longed
Through classic climes to rove,
Where yellow Tiber proudly rolls,
Or Sappho sang of love,
Or where, o'er Snowden's forehead gushed,
The Cambrian harp,—but tears
That round my hearth-stone rained that morn,
Made dim the hope of years.
'Twould be so hard to say
Farewell to home and cherished ones,
And boldly launch away;
166
Through classic climes to rove,
Where yellow Tiber proudly rolls,
Or Sappho sang of love,
Or where, o'er Snowden's forehead gushed,
The Cambrian harp,—but tears
That round my hearth-stone rained that morn,
Made dim the hope of years.
Three days! As long as he of old,
The recreant prophet, staid
In living casket strangely sealed,
Amid the sea-weed's shade;—
He, who from crime-stained Nineveh,
Withheld the warning cry,
And in a ship of Tarshish thought
To 'scape the all-seeing Eye,
And then, beside his smitten gourd,
Spake out with murmuring breath,
To vindicate his bitter right
Of anger unto death.
The recreant prophet, staid
In living casket strangely sealed,
Amid the sea-weed's shade;—
He, who from crime-stained Nineveh,
Withheld the warning cry,
And in a ship of Tarshish thought
To 'scape the all-seeing Eye,
And then, beside his smitten gourd,
Spake out with murmuring breath,
To vindicate his bitter right
Of anger unto death.
“On the third day He rose.” Who rose?
My spirit's strength and stay;
Unto whose blessed skirts I'll cling
Till life is rent away.
It matters not, though death draw nigh
In curtained chamber fair,
Or on the deep, 'mid wrecking blasts,
If He be with us there:
And may my ransomed soul at last,
Time's storm-tried voyage o'er,
Sit down, like Mary, at his feet,
And listen evermore.
My spirit's strength and stay;
Unto whose blessed skirts I'll cling
Till life is rent away.
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In curtained chamber fair,
Or on the deep, 'mid wrecking blasts,
If He be with us there:
And may my ransomed soul at last,
Time's storm-tried voyage o'er,
Sit down, like Mary, at his feet,
And listen evermore.
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