POINT PRIM.
Far off from the smoke, and the city's glare,
To the breath of the clover lea; From the din and dust to the healthful air,
And the song of a tranquil sea. Which falls on the ear like a holy psalm
From a world unkenned of strife; As the eve glides past in a blissful calm,
Like the close of a well-spent life.
Yet sighings of sorrow are heard in the foam
Which white-wreathes thy border, Point Prim; As she telleth their fate, who left thee, to roam,
The eyes of the mother wax dim. Of him who ne'er quitted dread danger's post
Till engulfed in the treacherous wave; Or of him who fevered on sultry coast,
And was launched in the sailor's grave.
No thrilling oration shall vaunt their praise,
No flowers bloom over their breast; The surges shall wail through the long, long days,
Yet disturb not their quiet rest. No kindred shall bind them in narrow bed,
No marble earth's sympathy crave; Sea-shells will pillow the wave-shrouded head,
And winds sigh the dirge of her brave.
No more by the wood path, through falling leaves,
Will she hasten their steps to greet; But yet will she gather her golden sheaves,
When time and eternity meet. No more will they weather the tempest's strain,
With a lowering sky o'erhead;— One haven will shelter her loved again
When the sea giveth up its dead.