"It is the pirate's curséd bark!
The villains linger to decoy;
Thus bounding o'er the waters dark,
They seek to lure, and then destroy.
Perchance those strange and wayward signs
May be the signals of distress,"
The captain cried; "for, mark ye, now,
Her sails are flapping wide and loose."
And now the stranger-vessel came
Near to that gay and gallant bark;
It seemed a wanderer, fair and lone,
Upon life's wave, so deep and dark.
And not a murmur, not a sound,
Came from that lone and dreary ship;
The icy chains of silence bound
Each rayless eye and pallid lip.
For Death's wing had been waving there;
The cold dew hung on every brow,
And sparkled there, like angel tears,
Shed o'er the silent crew below.
Onward that ship was gayly flying,
Its bosom the sailor's grave;
The breeze, 'mid the shrouds, in low notes sighing
Their requiem over the brave.
Fly on, fly on, thou lone vessel of death,
Fly on with thy desolate crew;
For mermaids are twining a sea-weed wreath
'Mong the red coral
THE world, dear John, as the old folks told us,
Is a world of trouble and care;
Many a cloud of grief will enfold us,
And the sunshine of joy is but rare.
But there's something yet to be bright and blest in,
No matter how humble the lot;
The world still gives us a home to rest in,
Its holiest, happiest spot.
Sweet home! dear home! on the northern heather, On the sunniest southern plain;
The Lapland hut in its wintry weather,
The tent of the Indian main;
Be it gorgeous wealth that our temple is drest in,
Be it poor and of little worth,
O home, our home a home to rest in
Is the dearest thing on earth.
But time, dear John, is using us badly;
Our homes crumble day by day,
And we're laying our dear ones, swiftly and sadly,
In the dust of the valley away.
There's a death robe soon for us both to rest in,
A place for us under the sod;
Be heaven at last the home we shall rest in,
The rest for the children of God!
AMONG the joys, 'tis one at eve to sail .
On the broad river, with a favorite gale;
When no rough waves upon the bosom ride,
But the keel cuts, nor rises on the tide;
Safe from the stream the nearer gunwale stands,
Where playful children trail their idle hands,
Or strive to catch long grassy leaves that float
On either side of the impeded boat;
What time the moon arising shows the mud,
A shining border to the silver flood;
When, by her dubious light, the meanest views,
Chalk, stones, and stakes, obtain the richest hues;
And when the cattle, as they gazing stand,
Seem nobler objects than when viewed from land;
Then anchored vessels in the way appear,
And sea-boys greet them as they pass, "What cheer?"
The sleeping shell-ducks at the sound arise,
And utter loud their unharmonious cries;
Fluttering, they move their weedy beds among,
Or instant diving, hide their plumeless young.
Along the wall, returning from the town,
The weary rustic homeward wanders down;
Who stops and gazes at such joyous crew,
And feels his envy rising at the view;
He the light speech and laugh indignant hears,
And feels more pressed by want, more vexed by fears.
Ah! go in peace, good fellow, to thine home,
Nor fancy these escape the general doom;
Gay as they seem, be sure with them are hearts
With sorrow tried; there's sadness in their parts:
If thou couldst see them when they think alone,
Mirth, music, friends, and those amusements gone;
Couldst thou discover every secret ill
That pains their spirit, or resists their will;
Couldst thou behold forsaken Love's distress,
Or Envy's pang at glory and success,
Or Beauty, conscious of the spoils of Time,
Or Guilt alarmed when Memory shows the crime;
All that gives sorrow, terror, grief, and gloom;
Content would cheer thee trudging to thine home.
There are, 'tis true, who lay their cares aside,
And bid some hours in calm enjoyment glide;
Perchance some fair one to the sober night
Adds (by the sweetness of her song) delight;
And as the music on the water floats,
Some bolder shore returns the softened notes;
Then, youth, beware, for all around conspire
To banish caution and to wake desire;
The day's amusement, feasting, beauty, wine,
These accents sweet and this soft hour combine,
When most unguarded, then to win that heart of thine.
But see, they land! the fond enchantment flies,
And in its place life's common views arise.
TRUE happiness had no localities;
No tones provincial; no peculiar garb.
Where duty went, she went; with justice went,
And went with meekness, charity, and love,
Where'er a tear was dried; a wounded heart
Bound up; a bruiséd spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed; or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed; or injury
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven:
Where'er an evil passion was subdued,
Or virtue's feeble embers fanned; where'er
A sin was heartily abjured, and left;
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish,
There was a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane,
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled.
No specious splendor of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,
And blushes modest as the giver.
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