 | [The sea of death, in] The lily of the valley, for 1851 |  |
45
THE SEA OF DEATH.
That dim and ever-restless sea,
Whose voice is solemnly sublime,
Unwearied through the ages, still
Wears on the crumbling shore of time;
And from its many phantom boats,
That silently at anchor lay,
White hands forever are outstretched,
To clasp us from the world away.
Whose voice is solemnly sublime,
Unwearied through the ages, still
Wears on the crumbling shore of time;
And from its many phantom boats,
That silently at anchor lay,
White hands forever are outstretched,
To clasp us from the world away.
And when, upon the march of life,
Weary and failing feet have bled,
Then kindly arms have borne them where
The paths are even to the tread.
Mothers whom, with his pleading voice,
The Saviour long had called in vain,
When thus he took their tender lambs,
Have never grieved his love again.
Weary and failing feet have bled,
Then kindly arms have borne them where
The paths are even to the tread.
Mothers whom, with his pleading voice,
The Saviour long had called in vain,
When thus he took their tender lambs,
Have never grieved his love again.
46
'T is but a year since one we loved,
Hearing sweet voices call her o'er,
Was rocked upon that sea to sleep,
And waked upon the other shore.
Down to the waters steadily,
And smiling at our fears, she came;
Till, closing darkly round her feet,
The billows chilled her tender frame.
Hearing sweet voices call her o'er,
Was rocked upon that sea to sleep,
And waked upon the other shore.
Down to the waters steadily,
And smiling at our fears, she came;
Till, closing darkly round her feet,
The billows chilled her tender frame.
Not long, to bless the loving heart
Of him who mourns her, was she lent;
The white folds of her bridal robe
Were all about her when she went.
And we who, for the sacred rites,
Braided her golden locks with care—
We saw her clasped a bride again,
With all the roses in her hair.
Of him who mourns her, was she lent;
The white folds of her bridal robe
Were all about her when she went.
And we who, for the sacred rites,
Braided her golden locks with care—
We saw her clasped a bride again,
With all the roses in her hair.
And so delightful are her years,
In that transcendant world of bliss,
The pleadings of our earthly love
Have never made her yearn for this.
O! what a blessed thing it is,
For those who cross that solemn main,
There is no voyage of return
Back to a world of death again!
In that transcendant world of bliss,
The pleadings of our earthly love
Have never made her yearn for this.
O! what a blessed thing it is,
For those who cross that solemn main,
There is no voyage of return
Back to a world of death again!
| [The sea of death, in] The lily of the valley, for 1851 | |