Rosemary and Pansies/The Lost Son
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THE LOST SON
Oh cruel waves, tyrant waves! where is my son?
With my brave boy, my gallant boy, what have ye done?
Long, long, have I watched for his coming in vain,
But surely, oh surely, he'll come back again.
With my brave boy, my gallant boy, what have ye done?
Long, long, have I watched for his coming in vain,
But surely, oh surely, he'll come back again.
Ah! the waves they are moaning in grief-laden tones,
As though they re-echoed my sighs and my groans;
Deep, deep he is buried beneath the salt spray,
And the winds and the waves chant his funeral lay.
As though they re-echoed my sighs and my groans;
Deep, deep he is buried beneath the salt spray,
And the winds and the waves chant his funeral lay.
He is lying at rest and no dreams vex his sleep,—
Ah! would I were sleeping as sound and as deep:
Gold, jewels, and treasures unnumbered are there,
But the sea holds no treasure with him can compare.
Ah! would I were sleeping as sound and as deep:
Gold, jewels, and treasures unnumbered are there,
But the sea holds no treasure with him can compare.
The clouds become blacker, more stormy the main,
And the wild wind is blowing a mad hurricane;
They are seeking fresh victims, but cannot destroy
Another so fair and so brave as my boy.
And the wild wind is blowing a mad hurricane;
They are seeking fresh victims, but cannot destroy
Another so fair and so brave as my boy.
Cruel waves, ye have robbed me of all I held dear,
And there's nothing on earth I can love now or fear:
Ah! would ye but bear me to where he lies low
I would bless ye, and ban ye no more as a foe!
And there's nothing on earth I can love now or fear:
Ah! would ye but bear me to where he lies low
I would bless ye, and ban ye no more as a foe!
[I print the above, not because I am blind to its defects, but because it was the first poem I wrote, and the first piece of mine which was printed. It appeared in 1863 in a periodical called "The Key."]