Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/225

In life's extremity, and bade him bear
With broken words of love's last eloquence
To his blest Mary.—Now that chosen friend
Bowed low his sun-burnt face, and like a child
Sobbed in deep sorrow.
                                       But there came a tone,
Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas—
"I am the resurrection!"—Every heart
Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised.
There stood the chaplain, his uncovered brow
Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice,
Rich as the balm from plants of paradise,
Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls
Of dying men. It was a holy hour!
There lay the wreck of manly beauty, here
Bent mourning friendship, while supporting faith
Cast her strong anchor, where no wrathful surge
Might overwhelm, nor mortal foe invade.
    There was a plunge!—The riven sea complained,
Death from her briny bosom took his own.
    The troubled fountains of the deep lift up
Their subterranean portals, and he went
Down to the floor of ocean, 'mid the beds
Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul,
Mid all the funeral pomp, with which this earth
Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad,
Sublime or sorrowful, as the mute sea
Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth.