138

ONLY ONE NIGHT AT SEA.

The pledge has been received,
The vessel leaves the shore,
Bearing the beautiful and brave,
Who ne'er shall greet us more;
And every heart beats high,

As bounding o'er the wave,

The gallant bark moves on

To bear them to their grave.

The merry beams of day

Before the darkness flee,

And gloomy night comes slowly on,
That "only night at sea:"
The watch upon the deck,
Their weary vigils keep,

And countless stars look down
In beauty o'er the deep.

Within that stately boat

The prattler's voice is still,
And beauty's lovely form is there,
Unheeding of the ill;

And manhood's vigorous mind

Is wrapped in deep repose,

And sorrow's victim lies

Forgetful of his woes.

That wakes the sleepers from their dreams,

And rouses them-to die:

Ah, who shall tell the hopes
That rose, so soon to flee;
The good resolves destroyed
By that "one night at sea?"

That hour hath passed away,
The morning's beams are bright,
As if they met no record there,
Of that all-fearful night;

But many souls have fled
To far eternity,

And many hearts been wrecked
In that "one night at sea."

Great God! whose hand hath launched
Our boat upon life's sea,

And given us as a pilot there,
A spirit bold and free,

So guide us with thy love,

That our frail bark may be,

Mid waves of doubt and fear, "Only one night at sea."

BRAVELY thy old arms fling

Their countless pennons to the fields of air,

And like a sylvan king,

Their panoply of green still proudly wear.

141

TO AN ELM.

As some rude tower of old,

Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form,
With limbs of giant mould,

To battle sternly with the winter storm.

In Nature's mighty fane,

Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky;
How long the pilgrim train,

That with a benison have passed thee by!

Lone patriarch of the wood!
Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise,
Of fresh and dauntless mood,
Spreading thy branches to the open skies.

The locust knows thee well,

And when the summer days his notes prolong,
Hid in some leafy cell,

Pours from thy world of leaves his drowsy song.

Oft on a morn in spring,

The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray,

And there securely swing,

To whet his beak, and breathe his blithesome lay.

How bursts thy monarch wail,

When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life,

142

TO AN ELM.

And bared to meet the gale,

Wave thy old branches eager for the strife!

The sunset often weaves

Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare,
While the fresh-murmuring leaves
Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air.

Sacred thy roof of green

To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free;
Gay youth and age serene,
Turn with familiar gladness unto thee.

Oh, hither should we roam,

To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade;

Beneath thy emerald dome

Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade.

With blessings, at thy feet

Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest;

Thy verdant, calm retreat,

Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast.

When at the twilight hour,

Plays through thy tressil crown, the sun's last gleam,
Under thy ancient bower

The school-boy comes to sport, the bard to dream.