War Drums (Scharkie)/Beyond the Tide
BEYOND THE TIDE.
Beyond the field, beyond the foam, Far past the shining harbour bar, Towards the sea, towards a star, Towards the shining gates of home.
The ship in port, the anchor plied, The lisping ripple on the strand, The portals wide, the open hand, The welcome kiss beyond the tide.
Dark is the night, with the weight of a wail on it, Drear as the sob of a dolorous dirge.Wild is the sea, with tatters of sail on it, Shriek in the tempest, and death on the surgeFar on the foam, on the cold bitter crest of it, Topples and struggles the wraith of a form.Where is the tale of it? What is the quest of it?— Phantom of Me, in the roar of the storm.—Dark is the night, with the weight of a wail on it, Drear as the sob of a dolorous dirge;Wild is the sea, with tatters of sail on it,— Shriek in the tempest, and death on the surge.
Far in the days when love was the crown on them, Back, in the dawn of a beautiful world,Joy, like a river of crystal, ran down on them; Peace with the gold, and the purple impearled. Never was tree with so perfect a bloom on it; Never so sweet was the lisp of the rain;Never was night with the shadow of gloom on it; Never was day with the burden of pain.Dark is the night, with the weight of a wail on it, Drear as the sob of a dolorous dirge.Wild is the sea, with tatters of sail on it, Shriek in the tempest, and death on the surge.
Fair glode the shallop with white sails aloft on it; Winds woke to song on its glittering spars;Sunbeam and shadow broke silent and soft on it; Calm in the deep was the light of the stars.Purple and gold of the dawn filled the sail of it; Ripple and breeze danced in garrulous glee;Sunset brought thunder and wind, and the wail of it Stifled the music, and startled the sea.Far on the foam, on the cold bitter crest of it, Topples and struggles the wraith of a form. Where is the tale of it? What is the quest of it?— Phantom of Me, in the roar of the storm.—
Spirit of Me! with the weight of the night on it; Doomed with a darkness, and doubt, and eclipse;Driven from home with blackness and blight on it, Left when the curses were dead on His lips.Thence stamped the hurricane's harrowing feet on it; Bitter lipped dirges howled cold on the foam;Storms of the winter rose rugged, and beat on it; Shattered its moorings, and drove it from home.Sorrow and grief, and the bitter drear drips of them, Seethed on the wearying wail of the waves;Thunders moaned out on the sinister lips of them, Visions of spectres, and phantoms of graves.
Where is there hope for it? Where is there rest for it, Rest from the tumult, and hope for the light?Shriek, ye wild surges, and deafen the quest of it— Quest of a cry of a voice in the night.Hope! on far-away reaches God's ministers speak of it— Speak of a hope that will cover the graves,Death, and the sea, and the wearying shriek of it, Sorrow, and grief, and the wail of the waves.See! a day breaking with amber light rolled on it, Scatters the darkness, and heralds a morn—Blood of a God is the purple and gold on it— Blood of a God is the light of the dawn.
Fair glides the shallop with white sails aloft on it; Winds wake to song on its glittering spars;Sunbeam and shadow break silent and soft on it; Calm in the deep is the light of the stars.Purple and gold of the dawn spread their wings to it; Ripple and breeze dance in garrulous glee; Billow, far-leagued, is the singer that sings to it; Sunset's low thunder falls sweet on the sea.Far on the foam, on the cold bitter crest of it, Hover white wings o'er the wraith of a form.Where is the tale of it? What is the quest of it?— Christ in the shallop with me in the storm.
Beyond the field, beyond the foam, Far past the shining harbour bar, Towards the sea, towards a star, Towards the shining gates of home.
The ship in port, the anchor plied, The lisping ripple on the strand, The portals wide the open hand, The welcome kiss beyond the tide.