138 ONLY ONE NIGHT AT SEA. The pledge has been received, As bounding o'er the wave, The gallant bark moves on To bear them to their grave. The merry beams of day Before the darkness flee, And gloomy night comes slowly on, And countless stars look down Within that stately boat The prattler's voice is still, And manhood's vigorous mind Is wrapped in deep repose, And sorrow's victim lies Forgetful of his woes. That wakes the sleepers from their dreams, And rouses them-to die: Ah, who shall tell the hopes That hour hath passed away, But many souls have fled And many hearts been wrecked Great God! whose hand hath launched And given us as a pilot there, So guide us with thy love, That our frail bark may be, Mid waves of doubt and fear, "Only one night at sea." BRAVELY thy old arms fling Their countless pennons to the fields of air, And like a sylvan king, Their panoply of green still proudly wear. 141 TO AN ELM. As some rude tower of old, Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form, To battle sternly with the winter storm. In Nature's mighty fane, Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky; That with a benison have passed thee by! Lone patriarch of the wood! The locust knows thee well, And when the summer days his notes prolong, Pours from thy world of leaves his drowsy song. Oft on a morn in spring, The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray, And there securely swing, To whet his beak, and breathe his blithesome lay. How bursts thy monarch wail, When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life, 142 TO AN ELM. And bared to meet the gale, Wave thy old branches eager for the strife! The sunset often weaves Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare, Sacred thy roof of green To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free; Oh, hither should we roam, To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade; Beneath thy emerald dome Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade. With blessings, at thy feet Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest; Thy verdant, calm retreat, Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast. When at the twilight hour, Plays through thy tressil crown, the sun's last gleam, The school-boy comes to sport, the bard to dream. |