A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS. FROM the deep and troubled waters Wild are the waves around me Dark the sky: There is no hand to pluck me To one small plank that fails me I am dashed by the angry billows I hear death-anthems ringing In all the winds that blow. A cry of suffering gushes As I behold the distant White-sail'd ships O'er the dark waters gleaming Where the horizon dips. They pass; they are too lofty They cannot see the spaces The last hope dies within me, Through dim cloud-vistas looking I can see, The new moon's crescent sailing And one star coldly shining There are no sounds in Nature But my moan, The shriek of the wild petrel And roar of waves exulting Billow with billow rages, Strength fails me; coldness gathers From the deep and troubled waters I cry to Thee, my God. WHEN I LIE COLD IN DEATH. A WHEN I lie cold in death, Bury me where ye will, Though if my living breath May urge my wishes still, When I shall breathe no more; Let my last dwelling be, Beneath a turf with wild flowers covered o'er, Under a shady tree, grave where winds may blow and sunshine fall, And autumn leaves may drop in yearly funeral. I care not for a tomb, With sculptured cherubim, Amid the solemn gloom Of old cathedrals dim. I care not for the pride Of epitaphs well-meant, Nor wish my name with any pomps allied, Give me a grave beneath the fair green trees And an abiding-place in good men's memories. But wheresoe'er I sleep I charge you, friends of mine, With adjuration deep And by your hopes divine; Let no irreverent pen For sake of paltry pay, Expose my faults or follies unto men, To desecrate my clay : Let none but good men's tongues my story tell, — Nor even they, I'd sleep unvexed by any knell. Why should the gaping crowd Claim any right to know How sped in shine or cloud My pilgrimage below? Why should the vulgar gaze Be fixed upon my heart, When I am dead, because in living days I did my little part To sing a music to the march of man A lark high carolling to armies in the van ? But still if crowds will claim A moral, to be told, From my unwilling name, When slumbering in the mould, I'll tell the tale myself A story ever new — Yet old as Adam. -Oh, ye men of pelf, Ye would not tell it true — But I will tell it in my noon of life, And wave the flag aloft ere I depart the strife. WHEN I LIE COLD IN DEATH. I wasted precious youth, But learned before my prime The majesty of Truth The priceless worth of Time; I hoped, and was deceived I built without a base 137 I err'd I suffer'd — doubted- and believed I ran a breathless race, And when half-way toward the wished-for goal, Despised the bauble crown, for which I'd given my soul. I thought that I was wise, I strove in vain to flee The penalty of sin; I plucked the apple, Pleasure, from the tree, I sow'd ill seed in spring-time of my years I never did a wrong That brought not punishment, In sufferings keen and long By chastening mercy sent. I never did the right Without a sweet reward Of inward music and celestial light In beautiful accord. I never scorn'd but with result of scorn, Nor loved without new life when I was most forlorn. |