THE ocean frowned darkly, the tempest blew,
And the thunders heavily rolled;
The billow, late trembling with cerulean blue,
Now blackening in anger was scrolled.
'Twas sad, for borne on the echo of night,
Came the voice of the furious blast;
'Twas drear, for no ray lent its beacon light,
Save the lightning that fearfully past.
'Twas lonely, for naught could the wind-god descry,
Save the barque that breasted the foam;
In the moanings of midnight, the mariner's cry
Was heard, bewailing of home.
The fires of home burn bright, but ne'er
Shall they shine on the mariner's grave;
The smiles of affection, the prattlers are there,
But the father-lies cold in the wave.
PEACEFUL rest, ye silent dead,
Rest, ye weary wanderers, rest,
Gentle is your earthy bed;
Quiet is the aching breast.
Peaceful rest, for o'er the tomb
Weeping willows love to wave;
Rest, for Spring's perennial bloom
Clusters fairest on the grave.
Rest, for life is but a dream;
Bliss is naught but gilded wo;
They that live enjoy the gleam,
They that slumber truly know.
Rest! no sorrow can befall ye,
Mingle with the valley's clod;
Rest, till nature's cry shall call ye,
Call ye to approach your God.
'Tis midnight, and on Olive's brow
The star is dimm'd that lately shone;
"Tis midnight; in the garden now,
The suffering Saviour prays alone.
'Tis midnight, and from all removed,
Immanuel wrestles, lone, with fears;
E'en the disciple that he loved,
Heeds not his Master's grief and tears.
'Tis midnight, and for other's guilt
The Man of Sorrows weeps in blood;
Yet he that hath in anguish knelt,
Is not forsaken by his God.
'Tis midnight, and from ether plains,
Is borne the song that angels know;
Unheard by mortals are the strains
That sweetly sooth the Saviour's wo.
THERE is a curse,-'tis dark and fell,
As fallen spirits know;
It rings affliction's deepest knell,
It stamps despairing wo:
'Tis thou, FALSE HONOUR, baleful fiend,
That lur'st with secret guile:
'Tis thou, by tyrant custom screened,
That murders with a smile,
'Tis thou that spurn'st the hallowed ties,
That mutual souls entwine;
By friendship's hand, the victim dies,
An offering at thy shrine.
The woes that rend the widowed breast, And writhe with keen despair,
The sigh that speaks the heart oppressed,
The hapless orphan's tear:
These are thy triumphs, HONOUR, these
The trophies of thy fame;
And such the envied laurel wreaths,
That cluster round thy name.
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