Classic Poem

In agony a mother knelt
Beside her wasted pulseless child;
"Give, oh, give him back to me,"
She cried, in accents stern and wild.

That prayer was heard, the answer came:
The feeble pulse revived again;
And quick the crimson tide of life
Flowed warmly back through every vein.

Yet, though the mother saw the change,
No praise unto her God was given;
No grateful incense from that heart
Ascended up to pitying heaven.

'Twas midnight's deep and silent hour,
When nature folds her hands to sleep,
And Angels come to bathe the flowers,
With dewy tears they only weep.

She heeded not the pulse of time
That throbb'd the moments of the night,
Nor yet the early morning's dawn,
That ting'd the east with rosy light.

But with a mother's earnest eye,
Watch'd o'er her infant's peaceful rest:
Until his gentle slumber passed,
Then clasp'd him fondly to her breast.

Childhood's brief years in sin were spent;
The stubborn knee ne'er bent in prayer;
Those lips ne'er spake a Saviour's name,
"Our Father" never lingered there.

Youth's golden season, too, was passed
In wanton sports and misspent time;
And soon he stood on manhood's verge,
A hardened wretch, prepared for crime.

Though so forbidding in his mein,
He woo'd and won a gentle bride,
Who but the closer to him clung,
As darker rolled life's heaving tide.

But though an Angel shar'd the place,
There were for him no joys at home;
He left his mother and his wife,
Reckless o'er earth or sea to roar.

He stood upon a sanded deck,
With blood-red pennon floating free,
And with a daring bloody band,
Rode madly o'er the foaming sea.

The waves that lashed the coal-black hull
Were parted oft their dead to hide;
For ocean's surging, billowy foam,
Drank deeply of life's crimson tide.

He tossed a pointed dagger high,
And wore a sabre by his side;
And many a gen'rous noble one,
Beneath his powerful arm had died.

For bloody deeds of daring high,
He had won a deathless fame;
And o'er that reckless, bloody crew,
Had gained a pirate-captain's name.

And though their coffers teem'd with gold,
Their sordid souls still sighed for more:
And to procure the paltry trash
They scour'd the seas from shore to shore.

But Retribution's hour must come;
Vengeance cannot always sleep;
Justice, with her glittering sword,
Pursues them swiftly o'er the deep.

At midnight, in a dungeon lone,
An aged female knelt in prayer;
But oh, her low, sepulchral tone
Seemed fraught with anguish and despair.

"My son," she cried, "to morrow's sun
Must witness your disgraceful death;
O, seek a dying Saviour's love,
E'en with your expiring breath.

The sun of Righteousness has risen,
And o'er my path shed golden light,
And shone upon the narrow way,
That ever followed leads aright.

And I have followed to the cross,
On which a dying Saviour hung,
Bemoaned my sins with weeping eyes,
Besought his grace with suppliant tongue.

He witness'd all my sorrowing tears,
And heard my suppliant prayer in Heaven;
Then sweetly spake with cheering voice,
"Daughter, thy sins are all forgiven."

Prostrate in dust before His throne,
My heart's pure worship then I gave;
Sweetly my ransomed spirit sang,
Jesus Christ has power to save."

Then spake the son:--"Talk not to me,
I heeded not weak woman's tears;
But when I sail'd upon the sea,
I quickly silenc'd all their fears.

Free was my trade, my arm was free,
And human blood I freely spilt;
And many an aged breast like thine,
Has sheath'd my dagger to its hilt.

Our blood-red pennon floated free,
Our blood-stained deck its witness gave;
Blood, human blood, was on our hands,
And mingled oft with ocean's wave."

Shudd'ring, the mother cried: "My son,
Though you are steeped in human gore,
There is a fountain filled with blood,
That can your purity restore.

Your Angel wife bath'd in that flood,
And proved a Saviour's promise true,
And when she gently pass'd from earth
She left her dying love for you;

And bade you seek a Saviour's face,
And by His mercy be forgiven,
And by that new and living way,
Seek an inheritance in Heaven."

"Then she is dead," he mournful cried,
"'Tis better thus, for see the sun
With rosy light now streaks the east:
And ere it sets my race is run.

Firm would I stand upon the drop,
Meet firmly my approaching doom;
But death is not an endless sleep,
And justice lives beyond the tomb.

Yet this conviction comes too late;
My soul is lost,--I cannot pray;
Forget your son--forget my fate,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way."

In agony the mother pressed
To her sad heart her guilty son;
But yet, like incense from that heart,
Sweetly arose, "thy will be done."

No hands were folded on his breast.
They laid him not within the tomb;
The surgeon took him from the drop,
To meet a more disgraceful doom.

And such is life, whose ebb and flow
Heaves the deep sea of human mind;
True happiness they only know,
Whose every wish's to Heaven resigned.