Poems (David)/The Midshipman's Bible

by Edith Mary David

THE MIDSHIPMAN'S BIBLE.

OUT upon the unruffled wave lying,
Is seen the weather-beaten craft—and sighing
Through her sails the sea breeze comes—as high o'er
Her masts the wildly screaming sea birds soar.
Upon the lone beach there stand side by side
A mother and her son, her joy and pride.
And as she marks that dark and deep blue eye,
With long drawn kiss arrests the deep drawn sigh—
With low sad parting words she in his hands,
Upon the lone and ever yellow sands,
The Holy Book does place; and with a heart
Almost breaking within her, there does part
From him, the widow's only cherished pride;
Then as the sailor lad does face the wide
Expansive ocean's breast, with tear dimmed eyes
He sees her much loved form fast fade, and sighs
As home comes rushing on his soul's unrest,
And to his lips his mother's prize is pressed.
Once in his berth, his boyish courage breaks,
And down his cheeks a tear comes fast which makes
His young heart almost bleed anew with pain,
As home thoughts crowd on his soul again.
Low bent in prayer before the throne of Grace
He kneels, and through clasped hands that shield his face
The burning tears pierce through.—Ah! who shall say
What strength to him is given who thus can pray?
Shall not He who once crossed the crested wave,
And by His word gave proof that He could save,
Fill with a peace beyond all earthly joy,
The heart of that God fearing sailor boy?
Alone he kneels, with only strangers near,
Severed from those who love and call him dear:
But gentle sleep o'ertakes his weary eyes,
Dries up the tear, and stills the heaving sighs.

And weeks fly by: and thus he learns to love
The ocean's waves and starry depths above.
What joy he feels as thus upon the sea
He reads its deep and dreadful mystery!
And as his face by summer breeze is fanned,
He sits with this her Bible in his hand.

And days pass on,—the ship is homeward bound:
He longs once more to touch the sacred ground
Of England, his home, his own native land;
Once more to feel that fond and dear embrace;
Once more to press his lips to that fond face,—
But oh! such joy for him can never be,
His mother's face he never more shall see!
"Mother," he cries, "the clouds drive fast to-night;
No star is there in all the heavens to light
The gathering gloom." The mother kneels in prayer—
To Him the God of storms—and prays that He
Will guard her only one upon the sea.
Down to the beach the rough waves pour
Their noisy flood with loud and deafening roar;
The wild sea birds scream to the fitful gale,
And the winds re-echo the ceaseless wail!
At length is heard the sound of a minute gun,
And the mother thinks of her only son—
With a piercing scream, from her prayer-bent knee
She starts and cries "O God!—a gun at sea."
With frantic haste down to the shore she speeds,
And there at once her greatest sorrow reads.
With wild clasped hands and cold and whitened lip,
Helpless to save she sees the sinking ship—
Upon the shore it drifts a heavy wreck,
While sea-gulls scream a requiem o'er her deck.
The childless widow to her home returns,
With anguish in her heart that almost burns
Her life away. In sad silent sorrow
She goes her lone way upon the morrow:
Along the sea-side sands she hears the roar
Of ocean waves, when on that rocky shore
There comes to her keen ears a piteous whine
Of a dumb one's grief and a poor brute's sign.
She listens a while, and then follows the sound,
And scarce has she paced the tall cliffs round
Ere she sees the mute friend of him her pride,
Who leads with sad step to her lost one's side.
There lowly she kneels by her dead boy's side
To kiss his white lips and his locks divide:
And watching him there through the tears that start
She sees her Bible pressed close to his heart.
With a prayer to her God, and long drawn sigh,
She asks that with him alone she might die.

And as time went on and year followed year,
The widow still looked with many a tear
On that Book of his with cover so worn,
And its well thumbed pages and leaves so torn,—
And carefully placed in the sacred place
Is a lock of hair that speaks of his face.
How often she thought of his gentle smile,
Which now she can feel is lost but a while:
How often she prays that He the all wise
Will take her to meet him in Paradise.

And when years had passed and her tread was slow,
And to church she felt could no longer go,—
When her voice was weak and her eyes were dim,—
In autumn's eve she was taken to him.

"Neath a yew tree in the church-yard loved best
The widow is laid with her boy at rest.