Poems (Toke)/The burial of the dead at sea

by Emma Toke

THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD AT SEA.

IS the evening hour, and all ocean seems
To bask in the glorious sunset beams,—
That light which glows in the burning west,
And falls on the waters' sparkling breast,
Tinging the waves with the gorgeous dyes
And thousand hues of the summer skies.
Soft comes the breeze, and the mighty deep
Is sunk in the calm of a giant's sleep,
Smiling as if beneath that wave
Thousands had found not a stormy grave,
Or the billows' roar and the tempest's moan,
Blent with the seaman's dying groan,
As he sank in the treacherous billow's swell,
With the surge his tomb, and the blast his knell.
Now all is peace, and the waters seem
Gentle and calm as an infant's dream;
Sleeping awhile is their awful power,—
Oh! fearful and fierce its waking hour!

But see! on the waste of waves, alone,
One stately bark goes gallantly on,
Spreading her wings of untainted snow,
To catch the breeze and the sunset glow;
And towering on high in her conscious pride,
As she walks the queen of the boundless tide.
But though there is joy in the laughing sky,
Peace on the waters, and smiles on high;
And though the dark forms of gathering men,
Clustering the snow-white deck are seen,
Yet the mingling glories of sea and sky
Seem not to glad one gazing eye,
For a shade of unwonted sadness now
Darkens each sea-beat and manly brow,
And a feeling of awe-stricken sorrow rests
Like a weight on the spring of those joyous breasts.
No marvel. Each sprang to his station there,
As the well-known signal struck on his ear;—
But not to contend with the raging blast,
And cling for life to the bending mast;
And not in the death-strife to meet the foe,—
For then would each bosom with ardour glow,—
But to give to that dark and shoreless wave
The cold remains of the young and brave;
To lay his form for its last long sleep,
'Mid the coral caves of the boundless deep.

Oh, sad was his fate! glad, bright, and gay,
He bounded along life's onward way,
With a lion's heart in its manly glow,
Yet a woman's love in its softer flow;
Beloved by all: scarce a grief or fear
Had dimmed the sun of his brief career:
Yet now, alas! cut down like a flower,
Laid low in the pride of his morning hour:
Not e'en in the struggle for life and fame,
To leave behind a death-hallowed name,
Jut conquered by fever's burning strife,
He has early fled from the war of life;
And now the beloved of a distant home
Must find a tomb 'mid the ocean's foam,
With none, save the spray or the cloud, to weep
O'er the stormy grave where his ashes sleep.

But hark! how the peaceful sounds of prayer
Solemnly rise on the evening air!
Telling that yet from her farthest bed
The sea must give up her uncounted dead;
For though no pastor is here to breathe
The words of peace by the bed of death,
Or in prayer o'er the senseless corse to bow,
Yet that last sad task is accomplished now
By the grey-haired chief of that gallant band,
While mute and uncovered around him stand
The dauntless spirits he oft had led
O'er the blood-stained deck, and the battle's dead;
And the hero's corse before him lies,
Wrapped in its shroud of no mournful dyes;
That pall which the brave may best become,
The meteor flag of his island home.
And now on the ear distinctly fall
Those mournful words, alas! known to all,
When that harrowing sound of woe and fear,
The rattling earth on the hollow bier,
Blends with the prayer of sorrowing love,—
Of grief below, but of hope above.
Though from home and from country far away,
Now comes that voice from the lonely sea,—
"Thou art gone; but in joyful hope to sleep,
We give thy form to the lonely deep."
Hark! a sudden plunge and a startling sound!
Then silence and stillness all around.
'Tis past! he sleeps 'neath the boundless wave,—
The sailor's home, and the sailor's grave!

They have looked their last, and the bark sweeps on
E'en the ripple which curled o'er his rest is gone:
And the gentle swell of the murmuring surge
Is the lost and cherished one's only dirge.

E.

October 29, 1835.