File:The book of gold, and other poems (1878) (14760835926).jpg

Identifier: bookofgoldotherp00trow (find matches)
Title: The book of gold, and other poems
Year: 1878 (1870s)
Authors: Trowbridge, J. T. (John Townsend), 1827-1916 Charles E. Feinberg Collection of Walt Whitman (Library of Congress) DLC
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Publisher: New York : Harper & Bros.
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: The Library of Congress

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little home so dear ! Now, if she dies, she feels that this is best— To fold her palms with friends and kindred near,In her dear home, and then be laid to rest By gentle hands beside those little graves, And not to perish in the cold dark waves. If only Job were safe ! That thought again,With throbbing lifes return, distracts her mind. The neighbors now come hurrying, earnest menAnd white-faced, eager women, all so kind. Some stay to serve the sick, and some, with Ben,Put forth in boats and scour the coast to find The missing man ; while springs triumphantly The glorious sun from out the glorious sea. 56 THE WRECK OF THE FI SUING -B OAT. Its far-off flag of smoke a steamship trailsAcross the fiery orb ; and here and there, On the blue dome of ocean, tacking sails •Darken and brighten in the purple air. Forgetting death and wreck and ruthless gales,The broad bright sea is marvellously fair ! With quivering scales and panting side, lies curled The azure dragon round about the world.
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BUT WITH THE CHILDREN WALKED THE OLDEST SON. Such beauty seems a mockery of their quest. The frolic waters well their secret keep,And hide grim death beneath a lovely breast. Down in the green recesses of the deep,Where, to and fro, in noiseless dark unrest, The slow mysterious plumes of sea-weed sweep,With upturned face and sightless, staring eyes,Beckoning with spectral hand, the dead man lies. Five days they search in vain ; upon the last,A farmer gathering sea-weed hears a yelp Of terror from his cur, and starts aghastAt something hideous tangled in the kelp. Ox-goad and fork down on the beach are cast;And from the nearest farm runs ready help. Tis done : the slow, unwieldy oxen start, ■ With a dread burden oozing in the cart. THE WRECK OF THE FISHING-BOAT. 57 Beside the little graves is shaped another ; Then the sad burial. Her own life scarce wonFrom death, at home still lay the weak, wan mother ; But with the children walked the oldest son,His hat plucked fiercely on his brow

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