 | Pocahontas, and other poems |  |
219
THE SAILOR'S APPEAL.
Ye dwellers on the stable land,
Of danger what know ye,
Like us who brave the whelming surge,
Or trust the treacherous sea?
The fair trees shade you from the sun,
You see the harvests grow,
And breathe the fragrance of the breeze
When the first roses blow.
Of danger what know ye,
Like us who brave the whelming surge,
Or trust the treacherous sea?
The fair trees shade you from the sun,
You see the harvests grow,
And breathe the fragrance of the breeze
When the first roses blow.
You slumber on your beds of down,
Close wrapp'd, in chambers warm,
Lull'd only to a deeper dream
By the descending storm;
While high amid the slippery shroud
We make our midnight path,
And e'en the strongest mast is bow'd
Beneath the tempest's wrath.
Close wrapp'd, in chambers warm,
Lull'd only to a deeper dream
By the descending storm;
While high amid the slippery shroud
We make our midnight path,
And e'en the strongest mast is bow'd
Beneath the tempest's wrath.
Yet still, what know ye of the joy
That lights our ocean-strife,
When on its way our gallant ship
Rides like a thing of life;
When gayly towards the wish'd-for port
With favouring wind we stand,
Or first your misty line descry,
Hills of our native land!
That lights our ocean-strife,
When on its way our gallant ship
Rides like a thing of life;
When gayly towards the wish'd-for port
With favouring wind we stand,
Or first your misty line descry,
Hills of our native land!
220
There's deadly peril in our path
Beyond the wrecking blast,
A peril that may reach the soul
When life's short voyage is past;
Send us your Bibles when we go
To dare the whelming wave,
Your men of prayer, to teach us how
To meet a watery grave.
Beyond the wrecking blast,
A peril that may reach the soul
When life's short voyage is past;
Send us your Bibles when we go
To dare the whelming wave,
Your men of prayer, to teach us how
To meet a watery grave.
And, Saviour! thou whose foot sublime
The foaming surge did tread,
Whose hand the rash disciple drew
From darkness and the dead,
Oh! be our Ark when floods descend,
When thunders shake the spheres,
Our Ararat when tempests end,
And the green earth appears.
The foaming surge did tread,
Whose hand the rash disciple drew
From darkness and the dead,
Oh! be our Ark when floods descend,
When thunders shake the spheres,
Our Ararat when tempests end,
And the green earth appears.
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