THE LOST CHILD.
It was an eve when the wild wind
Came moaning from the restless sea.
The sun sank low, and left behind
Darkness, and the wind minstrelsy
Of Ocean chafing' the rugged shore
'Mid storm and spray and hoarse waves' roar.
The brave, proud barque, which ere the noon
On pearly wings sculled scatheless on,
Had met the squall's fierce rage, and soon
Her pride, her loveliness were gone.
On rock, on beach, on foaming tide
Her timbers were scattered far and wide.
The hearts that throbbed with life's glad bound
Are silent now, save one, a child;
Whom when the passing fisher found,
He oped his little hand and smiled,
And lo! in the tiny palm there lay
A gold cross, moist with salt sea-spray.
How true that men are pilgrims all
Upon this world's wild, restless sea.
The mast'ring Passions' sudden squall
Shatters the soul: secure is he
Who grasps the Cross, and through the strife
Thus grasping, ever findeth life.
