Poems by the late John Bethune With a sketch of the author's life, by his brother |
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THE SHOUT OF VICTORY. |
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 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
THE SHOUT OF VICTORY.
What means that shout, so wild and high,
From the dark deep ocean's side?
And why that crash?—and why that cry
From the waves of the tumbling tide?
From the dark deep ocean's side?
And why that crash?—and why that cry
From the waves of the tumbling tide?
Does it hail the approach of some proud bark,
Majestic amid the deep;
And, white as the swan, o'er the billows dark
Bearing down with graceful sweep?
Majestic amid the deep;
And, white as the swan, o'er the billows dark
Bearing down with graceful sweep?
And is she laden with jewels and gold
From far, far distant lands?
And does she bear what cannot be sold;
Free hearts and manly hands?
From far, far distant lands?
And does she bear what cannot be sold;
Free hearts and manly hands?
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And is that cloud which darkens the sky
The smoke of the beacon fire,
Which blazes upon the sea-rock high
Like a tall and beautiful spire?
The smoke of the beacon fire,
Which blazes upon the sea-rock high
Like a tall and beautiful spire?
Ah no!—That shout was the victor's shout,
It rose o'er the groans of death,
As the hope of life with a shriek went out,
From the gallant ship sinking beneath.
It rose o'er the groans of death,
As the hope of life with a shriek went out,
From the gallant ship sinking beneath.
That curling cloud which ascends to the heaven
Is the smoke of the stately wreck;
And that crash which arose, as if mountains were riven,
Was the sound of her bursting deck.
Is the smoke of the stately wreck;
And that crash which arose, as if mountains were riven,
Was the sound of her bursting deck.
And the smile which you meet in every eye
Is not for friends return'd,
But the savage joy of an enemy
Over foes in the deep inurn'd.
Is not for friends return'd,
But the savage joy of an enemy
Over foes in the deep inurn'd.
They think not, while dashing along the dark waves,
Where the pride of the ocean lies low,
That, though they may exult o'er their deep-sea graves.
The tears of their kindred must flow:
Where the pride of the ocean lies low,
That, though they may exult o'er their deep-sea graves.
The tears of their kindred must flow:
They think not that orphans, and widows, and mothers,
Bereft of their hope and their trust,
Like the tree that is broke, or the floweret that withers,
Are shedding their sweets on the dust!
Bereft of their hope and their trust,
Like the tree that is broke, or the floweret that withers,
Are shedding their sweets on the dust!
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Oh! hasten, we pray thee, Great Father of Good,
The time when the sword shall corrode in its sheath;
When the spear shall be sharpen'd for pruning of wood,
And men cease to rejoice at destruction and death.
The time when the sword shall corrode in its sheath;
When the spear shall be sharpen'd for pruning of wood,
And men cease to rejoice at destruction and death.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |