Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/225

224 In life's extremity, and bade him bear With broken words of love's last eloquence To his blest Mary.—Now that chosen friend Bowed low his sun-burnt face, and like a child Sobbed in deep sorrow. But there came a tone, Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas— "I am the resurrection!"—Every heart Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised. There stood the chaplain, his uncovered brow Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice, Rich as the balm from plants of paradise, Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls Of dying men. It was a holy hour! There lay the wreck of manly beauty, here Bent mourning friendship, while supporting faith Cast her strong anchor, where no wrathful surge Might overwhelm, nor mortal foe invade. There was a plunge!—The riven sea complained, Death from her briny bosom took his own. The troubled fountains of the deep lift up Their subterranean portals, and he went Down to the floor of ocean, 'mid the beds Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul, Mid all the funeral pomp, with which this earth Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad, Sublime or sorrowful, as the mute sea Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth.