 | Rhymes with reason and without |  |
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THE DEAD SAILOR.
An eve of beauty on a summer sea,—
The waves were sinking gently to their rest,
And twittering sea-birds with a noisy glee
Skimmed, with delighted wing, the ocean's breast.
The moon serenely from a cloudless sky,
With heaven's own holy beauty in her ray,
Seemed, like a pitying angel from on high,
To bless the dying sailor as he lay.
The waves were sinking gently to their rest,
And twittering sea-birds with a noisy glee
Skimmed, with delighted wing, the ocean's breast.
The moon serenely from a cloudless sky,
With heaven's own holy beauty in her ray,
Seemed, like a pitying angel from on high,
To bless the dying sailor as he lay.
The strong was bowed; the mighty was subdued;
Death beckoned with his shadowy hand away;
Prone lay the form which often had withstood
Assailing horrors in their stern array.
Shipwreck and peril had essayed their power
His death in darkest moments to achieve;
But harmless had he passed through terror's hour,
To die, at last, upon that calm, bright eve.
Death beckoned with his shadowy hand away;
Prone lay the form which often had withstood
Assailing horrors in their stern array.
Shipwreck and peril had essayed their power
His death in darkest moments to achieve;
But harmless had he passed through terror's hour,
To die, at last, upon that calm, bright eve.
Low rise his murmurs on the evening air,
Murmurs of home and friends, far, far away;
A language strange he speaks, —his thoughts are there,
Where at this hour of eve his parents pray,
That this their son, the wanderer o'er the earth,
May be preserved from perils and alarms,
To bring a contrite spirit to their hearth,
And find forgiveness in their loving arms!
Murmurs of home and friends, far, far away;
A language strange he speaks, —his thoughts are there,
Where at this hour of eve his parents pray,
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May be preserved from perils and alarms,
To bring a contrite spirit to their hearth,
And find forgiveness in their loving arms!
We saw him breathe his last, our messmate bold,—
No word we spake, but gazed upon the dead;
Serene he lay, unheeding, stark and cold,
And many a tear o'er that loved form was shed.
We buried him beneath the ocean waves,—
A better sailor's tomb than earthly sod,—
The mortal of the man the billow laves,
The soul, immortal, resteth with its God.
No word we spake, but gazed upon the dead;
Serene he lay, unheeding, stark and cold,
And many a tear o'er that loved form was shed.
We buried him beneath the ocean waves,—
A better sailor's tomb than earthly sod,—
The mortal of the man the billow laves,
The soul, immortal, resteth with its God.
He was by birth a Dane, though twenty years' residence in this country had so perfected him in our language that no one could ever have supposed him a foreigner, unless from being informed of the fact. In his last moments (while unconscious) his language was entirely Danish, and we could distinguish but enough to convince us that he imagined himself amid the scenes of his youth, and was conversing with old friends.
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