Safe toward the haven.—Deep that thrilling prayer
Sank down into my bosom, like a spring
Of comfort and of joy.—All else was gone,—
Ambition,—glory,—friendship,—earthly hope.—
But firm devotion, like a sentinel,
Waking and watching round the parting soul,
Gave it the soldier's shield, and pilgrim's staff
For its returnless journey.—When I saw
This triumph of our faith,—this gem, that glow'd
Bright mid the dross of man's infirmity,
Low on the earth I laid my lip, and said.
"Oh, let me with the righteous die!—and be
My end like his."
ON THE LOSS OF THE STEAM BOAT ÆTNA,
WITHIN SIGHT OF NEW YORK, SATURDAY AFTERNOON,
MAY 15, 1824.
Her path was on the briny deep;
Yet no white sail propell'd her course,
Nor measured oar with graceful sweep
Urged her to stem the billow's force;
Self-moved, with fleecy track she past,
Disdaining in her pride
To woo the breeze or shun the blast,
Or wait the rolling tide;
While boldly to the sky
Her ensign, wreathing high,
Inwrought with volumed smoke, and sparkling flame, she cast.
