THE leaden clouds sweep o'er the sky, The fury of the storm is spent— The driftwood scattered o'er the beach All that is left by the warring element.
The sea-gull soareth high, and then, Descending, hovers o'er the waves' white foam— He calls a summons to his mate, And flyeth forth the ocean wide to roam.
But ah! the wood which strews the sand, Which by the sea was cast upon the beach— Were every spar with eloquence endowed, What lessons to us they might teach!
They first came from some noble tree Which stood upon a rock-bound coast, The branches of a Norway pine Which flung defiance to the wild winds' boast.
Then were the branches cut away, The great tree made into a mast, And fitted to a ship whose sails Should gleam like snowflakes on the ocean vast.
And from the port the ship set out, Leaving the land far, far behind, Until the dark night closed around— Onward flew the ship, and on, left to the mercy of the wind.
An awful sound of splintering wood, A shuddering, shivering shock— Upon a hidden rock she struck, Lapped by the waves which seemed to mock.
I sit upon the silent shore, And think of the ship which left the port; I watch the cold sea's crested waves Which creep up to my feet and then fall short.
Thus are the vain ambitions and the petty aims of man, Which arrogantly aspire to the skies; Thus do they e'er fall short With ne'er a sight of the desired prize.
We are but driftwood on the Sea of Life, Buffeted and tossed by the waves of Chance, Until, when crashing 'gainst the Rock of Fate, We are cast upon the Shores of Circumstance.
