. Miami woods, A golden wedding, and other poems . he Wreck at Sea. 247 Soon the rough tars prophetic eyeSaw many a floating shroud on high,And many a coffin drifting by— And on the driving galeBeheld the spirits of the Deep,Above—around—in fury sweep— Then he heard a low, sad wail, And at times a muttered curse,As on the fierce and troubled wind,Rode Death—and, following close behind, A dark and sombre soon the barque a wreck was driven,Before the free, wild winds of heaven !Now shrank with fear each gallant heart—- Bended was many a knee—And the last prayer was offered up God of t
. Miami woods, A golden wedding, and other poems . he Wreck at Sea. 247 Soon the rough tars prophetic eyeSaw many a floating shroud on high,And many a coffin drifting by— And on the driving galeBeheld the spirits of the Deep,Above—around—in fury sweep— Then he heard a low, sad wail, And at times a muttered curse,As on the fierce and troubled wind,Rode Death—and, following close behind, A dark and sombre soon the barque a wreck was driven,Before the free, wild winds of heaven !Now shrank with fear each gallant heart—- Bended was many a knee—And the last prayer was offered up God of the Deep, to Thee!Muttered the angry heavens still, And murmured still the sea—And old and sterner hearts bowed down, God of the Deep, to Thee!And still the wreck was onward driven, Upon the wide, wild sea—And Mans proud soul to Fate was given, Womans, oh God, to Thee! 248 Miscellaneous. Gaped wide the Deep—down plunged the wreck Up rose a fearful yell—Deaths wings flapped oer that sinking deck— A shudder!— all was To My Mother. 249 5To Mn pother. Thy cheek—it is pale my mother, And the light of thine eye is dim—And the gushings of gladness, that used to fill Thy cup of joy to its brim,Come like the visits of angels, So few and far between,That I feel the reed is a feeble one On which thou hence mast lean. Tis a bitter thing, my mother, To look on a parents decay—To behold the Spoilers ravages, As he tears lifes bloom away:Tis bitter to look on the furrows He ploughs in the thoughtful brow—To weep oer the gems of intellect That are rayless, and sheenless now. But there is a thought, my mother,That is balm to the stricken heart: 250 Miscellaneous. —Though the gift of life is a frail one,And from it we soon must part, There is a haven of gladness,For the weary heart a home, Where the light of joy is never dim,And sorrows never come. On that blissful home, my mother, Thine eye is often bent,Like a tiny childs on a wished-for-thing- So lon
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