The Storm At Sea
By Lydia Sigourney
The good ship o’er the Ocean
Glides on, while skies are bright,
And rolling waves, right merrily
Propel her homeward flight.
But clouds and angry tempests,
Rush from their prison cell,
The rocky coast frowns dark and dread,
The wintry surges swell.
‘Tis night.—Amid the breakers,
The headlong vessel goes,
And groaning, like a wounded man
Strives with its vengeful foes.
Pale grows the boldest mariner,
For scarce the trumpet’s cry,
Is heard amid contending blasts
That shake the astonish’d sky.
How fearful is the tumult,
The cry, the shriek, the prayer,
Are mingled with the deaf’ning storm,
In echoes of despair.
But in the lonely cabin
Rock’d by the raging sea,
There calmly sat a beauteous boy,
Upon his mother’s knee;
He sang a hymn of heaven,
Then spoke so sweetly mild,
“The Bible saith our Saviour dear
Doth love the little child,—
It telleth of a happy home,
Above the stormy sky,
Mother!—He’ll take us there to dwell
We’re not afraid to die.”
His smile was pure and peaceful,
As the pearl beneath the deep,—
When the booming battle-thunders
Across its bosom sweep.
Hoarse came the words of horror
From men of sinful life,
While innocence, with soul serene
Beheld the appalling strife.
Morn! Morn!—The clouds are breaking,
The tempest’s wrath is o’er.
The shatter’d bark moves heavily
To reach the welcome shore.
Hush’d is the voice of thunder,
And quell’d the lightning’s flame,
For prayer had touch’d the gate of Heaven,
And answer’ng mercy came.
