Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Time ("…is the changeful shore of life…")

Time.

Time is the changeful shore of life, And life's a mighty sea,Whose billows sweep athwart the deep Of dark Eternity.

Death is the pilot fierce and bold, Whose vessel bears us hence;With giant hold and sceptre cold, He comes—we know not whence.

He comes, and icy is his hand, And terrible his eye;With stern command, which none withstand, He bids his pris'ner die.

Away, away, across the deep The silent vessel flies;No glass can trace its landing-place— 'Tis hid from human eyes.

From age to age the vessel comes; Each year, and month, and daySome blank is left, some heart bereft— For none its course can stay.

Sometimes its sails with holy light And heavenly hues appear;But oft its form is wrapped in storm, And thunders speak it near.

Yet there is one of sovereign might, In whom all powers combine;An arm whose sway the dead obey— O Saviour! it is Thine.

And, lo! behind yon tyrant fierce His valiant conqueror stands;With love unknown He claims His own, And plucks them from his hand.