So like a wither'd leaflet, than the glare
Of gaudy wings that make the Iris dim."
NOR is regret exclusive to the old:
The boy, whose birth was midway o'er the main,
A ship his cradle, by the billows rock'd,—
"The nursling of the storm,"-altho' he claims
No native land, yet does he wistful hear
Of some far distant country still call'd home,
Where lambs of whitest fleece sport on the hills,
Where gold-speck'd fishes wanton in the streams;
Where little birds, when snow-flakes dim the air,
Light on the floor, and peck the table crumbs,
And with their singing cheer the winter day.
BUT what the loss of country to the woes . Of banishment and solitude combin'd!
Oh! my heart bleeds to think there now may live
One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck,
Cast on some desart 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 th' 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 shell-notch'd calendar to mark
Another day, another dreary day,
Changeless, for in these regions of the sun,
The wholesome law that dooms mankind to toil,
Bestowing grateful interchange of rest
And labour, is annull'd; for there the trees,
Adorn'd at once with bud, and flower, and fruit,
Drop, as the breezes blow, a shower of bread
And blossoms on the ground: But yet by him,
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 quiv'ring throat
Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below
Chant 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 boy look up, and strive
The widow'd heart to soothe. His spirit leans
On God. Nor does he leave his weekly vigil,
Tho' tempests ride o'er welkin-lashing waves
On wings of cloudless wind;† tho' lightnings burst
So vivid, that the stars are hid and seen
"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in the great deep: these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep."-PSAL. Cvii.
+ In the tropical regions, the sky during storms is often without a cloud.
In awful alternation: Calm he views
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 th' embodied spirit of sweet sounds
Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave:
The cadence well he knows,-a hymn of old,
* "If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me."--PSAL. cxxxix.
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