Poems (Curwen)/Richard Raby, Pilot
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
Richard Raby, Pilot.
Songs of sadness
'Tis my destiny to sing,
If I strike one note of gladness
Sorrow comes on sable wing,
Murmuring low,
In her voice of plaintive woe;
Joy can wait until to-morrow,
Sing, oh, sing, to comfort sorrow.
'Tis my destiny to sing,
If I strike one note of gladness
Sorrow comes on sable wing,
Murmuring low,
In her voice of plaintive woe;
Joy can wait until to-morrow,
Sing, oh, sing, to comfort sorrow.
Another barque—
An old and a familiar one—
Has slipped its moorings in the dark,
And on its lonesome voyage gone,
Gliding away,
Silently, at the close of day,
Piloted by the Unseen Hand
To a better berth in the silent land.
An old and a familiar one—
Has slipped its moorings in the dark,
And on its lonesome voyage gone,
Gliding away,
Silently, at the close of day,
Piloted by the Unseen Hand
To a better berth in the silent land.
Faintly I hear
A voice like sweetest music, falling
Upon the weary pilot's ear;
Softly, soothingly 'tis calling—
"Lay down thine oars,
Upon these peaceful shores
There is no watch for thee to keep,
Let go thy anchor! Rest and sleep!"
A voice like sweetest music, falling
Upon the weary pilot's ear;
Softly, soothingly 'tis calling—
"Lay down thine oars,
Upon these peaceful shores
There is no watch for thee to keep,
Let go thy anchor! Rest and sleep!"
Dimly I see
The shining shores of that fair coast,
Looming beyond the unplumbed sea,
Which our old friend has crossed:
The golden strand
Of the mysterious shadow-land—
The refuge of the soul—the haven
Some call the border-land of heaven.
The shining shores of that fair coast,
Looming beyond the unplumbed sea,
Which our old friend has crossed:
The golden strand
Of the mysterious shadow-land—
The refuge of the soul—the haven
Some call the border-land of heaven.
O, mighty faith!
Illuminator of the gloom
Of that dark vale, which men call death,
But I, only a waiting-room
Where souls abide
Till they are judged, and purified;
Light of the Light Eternal, we
Triumph o'er death, possessing Thee.
Illuminator of the gloom
Of that dark vale, which men call death,
But I, only a waiting-room
Where souls abide
Till they are judged, and purified;
Light of the Light Eternal, we
Triumph o'er death, possessing Thee.