A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS.

FROM the deep and troubled waters
Comes the cry;

Wild are the waves around me

Dark the sky:

There is no hand to pluck me
From the sad death I die.

To one small plank that fails me
Clinging low,

I am dashed by the angry billows
To and fro;

I hear death-anthems ringing

In all the winds that blow.

A cry of suffering gushes
From my lips,

As I behold the distant

White-sail'd ships

O'er the dark waters gleaming

Where the horizon dips.

They pass; they are too lofty
And remote,

They cannot see the spaces
Where I float.

The last hope dies within me,
With the gasping in my throat.

Through dim cloud-vistas looking I can see,

The new moon's crescent sailing
Pallidly :

And one star coldly shining
Upon my misery.

There are no sounds in Nature

But my moan,

The shriek of the wild petrel
All alone,

And roar of waves exulting
To make my flesh their own.

Billow with billow rages,
Tempest-trod;

Strength fails me; coldness gathers
On this clod:

From the deep and troubled waters I cry to Thee, my God.

WHEN I LIE COLD IN DEATH.

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WHEN I lie cold in death,

Bury me where ye will, Though if my living breath May urge my wishes still, When I shall breathe no more; Let my last dwelling be,

Beneath a turf with wild flowers covered o'er, Under a shady tree,

grave where winds may blow and sunshine fall, And autumn leaves may drop in yearly funeral.

I care not for a tomb,

With sculptured cherubim, Amid the solemn gloom

Of old cathedrals dim.

I care not for the pride

Of epitaphs well-meant,

Nor wish my name with any pomps allied,
When my last breath is spent ;

Give me a grave beneath the fair green trees

And an abiding-place in good men's memories.

But wheresoe'er I sleep

I charge you, friends of mine, With adjuration deep

And by your hopes divine; Let no irreverent pen

For sake of paltry pay,

Expose my faults or follies unto men,

To desecrate my clay :

Let none but good men's tongues my story tell, — Nor even they, I'd sleep unvexed by any knell.

Why should the gaping crowd

Claim any right to know How sped in shine or cloud My pilgrimage below? Why should the vulgar gaze Be fixed upon my heart,

When I am dead, because in living days

I did my little part

To sing a music to the march of man

A lark high carolling to armies in the van ?

But still if crowds will claim

A moral, to be told,

From my unwilling name,

When slumbering in the mould,

I'll tell the tale myself

A story ever new —

Yet old as Adam. -Oh, ye men of pelf,

Ye would not tell it true —

But I will tell it in my noon of life,

And wave the flag aloft ere I depart the strife.

WHEN I LIE COLD IN DEATH.

I wasted precious youth,

But learned before my prime The majesty of Truth

The priceless worth of Time; I hoped, and was deceived

I built without a base

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I err'd I suffer'd — doubted- and believed

I ran a breathless race,

And when half-way toward the wished-for goal, Despised the bauble crown, for which I'd given my soul.

I thought that I was wise,
When folly was my rule,
But with late-open'd eyes
Confess'd myself a fool.

I strove in vain to flee

The penalty of sin;

I plucked the apple, Pleasure, from the tree,
And found it dust within.

I sow'd ill seed in spring-time of my years
And reap'd the natural crop of agony and tears.

I never did a wrong

That brought not punishment,

In sufferings keen and long

By chastening mercy sent.

I never did the right

Without a sweet reward

Of inward music and celestial light

In beautiful accord.

I never scorn'd but with result of scorn,

Nor loved without new life when I was most forlorn.