SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED.
OH! my heart bleeds to think there now may live One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck,
Cast on some desert island of that main
Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore To Acapulco. Motionless he sits,
As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days,
With wandering eye, o'er all the watery waste;
Now striving to believe the albatross
A sail appearing on the horizon's verge;
Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope
Than hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours,
Till welcome evening warn him that 'tis time
Upon the well-notch'd calendar to mark
Another day, another dreary day,
The Hermit of the Deep, not unobserv'd
The Sabbath passes;-'tis his great delight.
Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray,
And loves, and sighs to think,-that setting sun
Is now empurpling Scotland's mountain-tops,
Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales,
Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat
Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below
Chaunt in the dewy shade. Thus, all night long
He watches, while the rising moon describes
The progress of the day in happier lands.
And now he almost fancies that he hears
The chiming from his native village church:
And now he sings, and fondly hopes the strain
May be the same that sweet ascends at home
In congregation full,-where, not without a tear,
They are remember'd who in ships behold
The wonders of the deep: he sees the hand,
The widow'd hand, that veils the eye suffus'd;
He sees his orphan'd boy look up, and strive
The widow'd heart to soothe. His spirit leans
On God.-
The far-exploding firmament, and dares
To hope-one bolt in mercy is reserv'd
For his release; and yet he is resign'd
To live because full well he is assur'd
Thy Hand does lead him, thy right Hand upholds.
And thy right Hand does lead him! Lo! at last,
One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep,
Music remote, swelling at intervals,
As if the embodied spirit of sweet sounds
Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave:
The cadence well he knows-a hymn of old,
Where sweetly is rehears'd the lowly state
Of JESUS, when his birth was first announced,
In midnight music, by an angel choir,
To Bethlehem's shepherds, as they watch'd their flocks.
Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks
It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell;
He looks, and starts to see, moving along,
A fiery wave, (so seems it,) crescent form'd,
Approaching to the land; straightway he sees
A towering whiteness; 'tis the heaven-fill'd sails
That waft the mission'd men, who have renounced
Their homes, their country, nay, almost the world,
Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles
Of ocean, that the dead shall rise again.
Forward the gleam-girt castle coast-wise glides,
It seems as it would pass away.-To cry
The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain,
Powerless his voice as in a fearful dream-
Not so his hand; he strikes a flint,-a blaze
Mounts from the ready heap of wither'd leaves :
The music ceases; accents harsh succeed,
Harsh, but most grateful; downward drop the sails;
Ingulf'd the anchor sinks; the boat is launch'd ;
But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn:
Oh then the transport of the man, unus'd
To other human voice beside his own,—
His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home,
Though earth's diameter is interpos'd.
Of perils of the sea he has no dread,
Full well assur'd the mission'd bark is safe,
Held in the hollow of the ALMIGHTY'S HAND.
A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER.
DELIGHTFUL is this loneliness; it calms
My heart; pleasant the cool beneath these elms,
That throw across the stream a moveless shade.
Here Nature in her midnoon whisper speaks :
How peaceful every sound! the ring-dove's plaint,
Moan'd from the twilight centre of the grove,
While every other woodland lay is mute,
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest,
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear,--
The grasshopper's oft pausing chirp,-the buzz,
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee,
That, soon as loos'd, booms with full twang away.-
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal,
Scar'd from the shallows by my passing tread.
Dimpling the water glides, with here and there
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout Watches his time to spring; or, from above,
Some feather'd dam, purveying 'mong the boughs,
Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood
Bears off the prize :-sad emblem of man's lot!
He, giddy insect, from his native leaf,
(Where safe and happily he might have lurk'd,)
Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings,
Forgetful of his origin, and, worse,
Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream;
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape,
Buoyant he flutters but a little while,
Mistakes the inverted image of the sky
For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate.
Now, let me trace the stream up to its source
Among the hills; its runnel by degrees
Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle.
Closer and closer still the banks approach,
Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots,
With brier, and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray,
That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount
Into the open air; grateful the breeze
That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain
Spread wide below: how sweet the placid view!
But, oh! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought,
That thousand and ten thousands of the sons
Of toil partake this day the common joy
Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale,
Of breathing in the silence of the woods,
And blessing HIM who gave the Sabbath-day.
Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb,
To think that now the townsman wanders forth
Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy
The coolness of the day's decline; to see
His children sport around, and simply pull
The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon,
Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix.
|