Funeral at Sea

The deep sea took the dead. It was a babeLike sculptur'd marble, pure and beautifulThat lonely to its yawning gulphs went down.—Poor cradled nursling,—no fond arm was thereTo wrap thee in its folds; no lullabyCame from the green sea-monster, as he laidHis shapeless head thy polished brow beside,One moment wondering at the beauteous spoilOn which he fed. Old Ocean heeded notThis added unit to his myriad dead.But in the bosom of the tossing shipRose up a burst of anguish, wild and loud,From the vex'd fountain of a mother's love.—The lost! The lost! Oft shall her startled dream,Catch the drear echo of the sullen plungeThat whelm'd the uncoffin'd body,—oft her eyeStrain wide through midnight's long unslumbering watch,Remembering how his soft sweet breathing seem'dLike measur'd music in a lilly's cup,And how his tiny shout of rapture swelled,When closer to her bosom's core, she drewHis eager lip.Who thus, with folded arms,And head declin'd, doth seem to count the waves,

And yet to heed them not? The sorrowing sire,Doth mark the last, faint ripple, where his childSank down into the waters. Busy thoughtTurns to his far home, and those little ones,Whom sporting 'mid their favorite lawn he left,And troubled fancy shows the weeping there,When he shall seat them once more on his knee,And tell them how the baby that they lov'd,Hid its pale cheek within its mother's breast,And pin'd away and died,—yet found no graveBeneath the church-yard turf, where they might plantThe lowly mound with flowers.What lifts the heartUp from its bitter sadness? Hark! His voiceThat o'er the thundering wave, doth pour sublimeSuch words, as arch the darkest storm of lifeWith faith's perennial bow.Thou, who dost speakOf His eternal majesty, who bidsBoth earth and sea to render up their dead,Know'st thou how soon thy tomb shall drink the tearsOf mourning kindred? Thou, who thus dost standSerene in youthful beauty, to yield backWhat God hath claim'd,—know'st thou how full the tideOf sympathy, that now thy bosom thrillsFor strangers, in thine own paternal hallsShall flow for thee?And if thou could'st, the flushWould not have faded on thy glowing cheek,For thou had'st made the countenance of deathFamiliar as a friend, through Him who pluck'dThe terror from his frown, and from his sting

The venom. At thine early tomb we bend,Taking that deep monition to our souls,Which through embowering verdure seems to sighOn every breeze—how frail is earth's best hope,And how immortal that, which roots in Heaven.