Poems (David)/The Midshipman's Bible

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THE MIDSHIPMAN'S BIBLE.
OUT upon the unruffled wave lying,Is seen the weather-beaten craft—and sighingThrough her sails the sea breeze comes—as high o'erHer masts the wildly screaming sea birds soar.Upon the lone beach there stand side by sideA mother and her son, her joy and pride.And as she marks that dark and deep blue eye,With long drawn kiss arrests the deep drawn sigh—With low sad parting words she in his hands,Upon the lone and ever yellow sands,The Holy Book does place; and with a heartAlmost breaking within her, there does partFrom him, the widow's only cherished pride;Then as the sailor lad does face the wideExpansive ocean's breast, with tear dimmed eyesHe sees her much loved form fast fade, and sighs ​As home comes rushing on his soul's unrest,And to his lips his mother's prize is pressed.Once in his berth, his boyish courage breaks,And down his cheeks a tear comes fast which makesHis young heart almost bleed anew with pain,As home thoughts crowd on his soul again.Low bent in prayer before the throne of GraceHe kneels, and through clasped hands that shield his faceThe burning tears pierce through.—Ah! who shall sayWhat strength to him is given who thus can pray?Shall not He who once crossed the crested wave,And by His word gave proof that He could save,Fill with a peace beyond all earthly joy,The heart of that God fearing sailor boy?Alone he kneels, with only strangers near,Severed from those who love and call him dear:But gentle sleep o'ertakes his weary eyes,Dries up the tear, and stills the heaving sighs.
And weeks fly by: and thus he learns to loveThe ocean's waves and starry depths above.What joy he feels as thus upon the seaHe reads its deep and dreadful mystery! ​And as his face by summer breeze is fanned,He sits with this her Bible in his hand.
And days pass on,—the ship is homeward bound:He longs once more to touch the sacred groundOf England, his home, his own native land;Once more to feel that fond and dear embrace;Once more to press his lips to that fond face,—But oh! such joy for him can never be,His mother's face he never more shall see!"Mother," he cries, "the clouds drive fast to-night;No star is there in all the heavens to lightThe gathering gloom." The mother kneels in prayer—To Him the God of storms—and prays that HeWill guard her only one upon the sea.Down to the beach the rough waves pourTheir noisy flood with loud and deafening roar;The wild sea birds scream to the fitful gale,And the winds re-echo the ceaseless wail!At length is heard the sound of a minute gun,And the mother thinks of her only son—With a piercing scream, from her prayer-bent kneeShe starts and cries "O God!—a gun at sea."With frantic haste down to the shore she speeds,And there at once her greatest sorrow reads. ​With wild clasped hands and cold and whitened lip,Helpless to save she sees the sinking ship—Upon the shore it drifts a heavy wreck,While sea-gulls scream a requiem o'er her deck.The childless widow to her home returns,With anguish in her heart that almost burnsHer life away. In sad silent sorrowShe goes her lone way upon the morrow:Along the sea-side sands she hears the roarOf ocean waves, when on that rocky shoreThere comes to her keen ears a piteous whineOf a dumb one's grief and a poor brute's sign.She listens a while, and then follows the sound,And scarce has she paced the tall cliffs roundEre she sees the mute friend of him her pride,Who leads with sad step to her lost one's side.There lowly she kneels by her dead boy's sideTo kiss his white lips and his locks divide:And watching him there through the tears that startShe sees her Bible pressed close to his heart.With a prayer to her God, and long drawn sigh,She asks that with him alone she might die.
And as time went on and year followed year,The widow still looked with many a tearOn that Book of his with cover so worn, ​And its well thumbed pages and leaves so torn,—And carefully placed in the sacred placeIs a lock of hair that speaks of his face.How often she thought of his gentle smile,Which now she can feel is lost but a while:How often she prays that He the all wiseWill take her to meet him in Paradise.
And when years had passed and her tread was slow,And to church she felt could no longer go,—When her voice was weak and her eyes were dim,—In autumn's eve she was taken to him.
"Neath a yew tree in the church-yard loved bestThe widow is laid with her boy at rest.
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