Surrounded by the howling blast,
His tide of life was ebbing fast;
But he was calm as evening air,
And raised on high a voice of prayer,
For neither storm nor death's fierce dart
Could shake the faith that nerv'd his heart.
He knew the hand that kept his life
Throughout a long, protracted strife,
Could never fail or know decay,
Though earth itself should pass away;
And as the stormy night rolled on,
His spirit hasted to be gone.
But morning dawn'd at length, and brought
That day's[C] return on which he fought
So often—till the evening sun
Set o'er the mighty victories won:
And darkness, like the warrior's shield,
Spread o'er the bloody battle-field.
That day brought victory no more;
His earthly triumphs then were o'er:
The battle of his life had pass'd,
And Death claim'd Victory at last;
For when the evening shades came down
His wearied spirit thence had flown.
William Ilott.
FOOTNOTES:
[C] 3d September, the anniversary of his greatest victories.