[Written for the Sentinel.]


Midnight, and the angry, storm-rocked sea;
The mad, wild pageantry of dashing waves.
The torrent pours,—from mighty clouds let free;
The swift wind raves,

And roll on roll the ceaseless thunder booms;
The lurid lightning gleams in vivid flame;
O'er sky and sea a seeming terror looms,
A poignant claim.

Ride on, my ship, o'er billow, foam, and spray;
Our compass marks the course and cannot err.
Though doubts would lure us, from our chosen way
We will not stir.

Ride on, my ship; the glory is at hand,
For Love hath seen the fearless, faithful will.
E'en now I hear the sweet, distinct command
Of "Peace, be still."

And lo, the morning dawns in floods of gold!
The calm blue waters gleam with points of light.
The glories of triumphant Truth unfold
To waking sight.

Ah, child of God, the blackness and the storm—
The tyrant claims of erring mortal mind—
In Truth's fair dawn shall lose the power to harm,
To fright, or blind.

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September 5, 1908

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