On A Late Loss

'He shall not float upon his watery bier Unwept.' THE breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string, Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm; The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring, Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form; The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun, Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash; And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on, Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash That wave and wind can muster, when the might Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite. So science whispered in thy charmed ear, And radiant learning beckoned thee away. The breeze was music to thee, and the clear Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. And they have wrecked thee! — But there is a shore Where storms are hushed — where tempests never rage; Where angry skies and blackening seas, no more With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage. By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod — Thy home is Heaven, and thy friend is God.