Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,
Slow as an oak to woodman’s stroke, sinks flaming at their marge;
The waves are bright with mirror’d light as jacinths on our way.
When shall the sandy bar be crost? When shall we find the bay?
The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we see
The spreading river’s either bank, and surging distantly
There booms a sudden thunder as of breakers far away;
Now shall the sandy bar be crost, now shall we find the bay!
The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight
The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.
We’ll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,
When once the sandy bar is crost and we are in the bay.
What rises white and awful as a shroud enfolded ghost?
What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangor on the coast?
Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away.
O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay?
NEARER HOME.
BY PHOEBE CARY.
Phoebe Cary, sister of Alice Cary, was born in Hamilton County, near Cincinnati, Sept. 24, 1824; died in Newport, R. I., July 31, 1871. Her educational advantages were superior to those of Alice, whose constant companion she was through life. “Nearer Home” was written when she was 18 years old. Intense sorrow for her sister, whom she survived, doubtless hastened her death.
One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o’er and o’er;
I’m nearer my home today
Than I ever have been before;
Nearer my Father’s house,
Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea;
Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,
Nearer gaining the crown!
But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night,
Is the silent, unknown stream,
That leads us at length to the light.