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the last of the gascoignes.
And the crescent edge of the soft silvery moon,
O'er the lone ocean's waves began to peep.
And then o'er that surf-beaten reef,
The lonely castaways were safely swept,
And on that calm and lovely island left.
The days, weeks, and months, passed slowly by,
Would a distant sail that they could descry!
Shuddering, lest they should never more
See once again their own dear native shore!—
Anxiously watching the wild foaming wave
From the low entrance of their little cave!
Gascoigne, how the bread-fruit trees at thy feet,
Of our God's loving kindness plainly speak:—
Placed upon this far and distant strand,
A gift so good, from the Almighty's hand!
And does the kind Creator's mighty voice
Ever bid man with heart and soul rejoice?
Does not the meanest floweret speak,
E'en though withered by the noon-tide heat?—
Do not the seared leaves all silently say
All that is earthly must soon fade away?—
Gascoigne, I have sailed o'er the northern seas,
Where no palm-tree bends to the balmy breeze,—
There the stinted pine lies wither'd and dead,
And the giant ice-bergs raise their snowy heads!
O'er the lone ocean's waves began to peep.
And then o'er that surf-beaten reef,
The lonely castaways were safely swept,
And on that calm and lovely island left.
The days, weeks, and months, passed slowly by,
Would a distant sail that they could descry!
Shuddering, lest they should never more
See once again their own dear native shore!—
Anxiously watching the wild foaming wave
From the low entrance of their little cave!
Gascoigne, how the bread-fruit trees at thy feet,
Of our God's loving kindness plainly speak:—
Placed upon this far and distant strand,
A gift so good, from the Almighty's hand!
And does the kind Creator's mighty voice
Ever bid man with heart and soul rejoice?
Does not the meanest floweret speak,
E'en though withered by the noon-tide heat?—
Do not the seared leaves all silently say
All that is earthly must soon fade away?—
Gascoigne, I have sailed o'er the northern seas,
Where no palm-tree bends to the balmy breeze,—
There the stinted pine lies wither'd and dead,
And the giant ice-bergs raise their snowy heads!
