Page:Poems and essays (IA poemsessays00howerich).pdf/42
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Acadia.
Back to the shore his prudent course he steers
And his heart gladdens as a light appears;
But see, yon mighty wave comes rolling on,
Where is his Bark? to ocean caves she's gone;
And where is he? wrapt in the billow's foam
While maddening thoughts of children and of home
Nerve his strong arm, and animate his soul—
Life the rich prize,—the shore the longed for goal—
For oh! tis hard upon the wave to die
With our own firelight gleaming in the eye.
And his heart gladdens as a light appears;
But see, yon mighty wave comes rolling on,
Where is his Bark? to ocean caves she's gone;
And where is he? wrapt in the billow's foam
While maddening thoughts of children and of home
Nerve his strong arm, and animate his soul—
Life the rich prize,—the shore the longed for goal—
For oh! tis hard upon the wave to die
With our own firelight gleaming in the eye.
But vain his struggles, for his shortening breath
And wearied limbs speak fearfully of death.
Ere light winged Hope deserts him, with a sigh,
He casts one earnest lingering look on high,
And that omniscient Eye which looks o'er all,
And even notes the tiny sparrow's fall,
Beholds and pities, and while life remains,
A billow wafts him and the beach he gains.
And wearied limbs speak fearfully of death.
Ere light winged Hope deserts him, with a sigh,
He casts one earnest lingering look on high,
And that omniscient Eye which looks o'er all,
And even notes the tiny sparrow's fall,
Beholds and pities, and while life remains,
A billow wafts him and the beach he gains.
Lull'd on the lap of luxury and ease,
With cheeks unfann'd but by the mildest breeze,
The listless sons of wealth and pride repose
Nor heed the poor man's toil—the poor man's woes.
Oh! little think they, when the snows of Heaven
Around their sheltered homes are wildly driven;
While round their warm and brightly burning fires
Wit lends its mirth, and Beauty's smile inspires;
Oh 1 little dream they then, how many poor
Industrious, active, children of the oar
Toil on the waste of waters—while the hail,
With cheeks unfann'd but by the mildest breeze,
The listless sons of wealth and pride repose
Nor heed the poor man's toil—the poor man's woes.
Oh! little think they, when the snows of Heaven
Around their sheltered homes are wildly driven;
While round their warm and brightly burning fires
Wit lends its mirth, and Beauty's smile inspires;
Oh 1 little dream they then, how many poor
Industrious, active, children of the oar
Toil on the waste of waters—while the hail,