ON the rough surges of the world's rude tide
I launch thee forth with fear, my little bark,
Thine only hope that, like the fragile ark
Of bulrushes that did within it hide
The infant Moses, thou perchance mayst live
A life ephemeral; not that thou canst give,
From thy construction rude and simple line,
Aught of meet pleasure to the cultured ear;
But that thou bearest many a theme divine,
And truths that simple hearts have loved to hear;
Truths that shall live, and still new harvests bear
Of souls redeemed by Christ, when verse of mine,
And many a harp e'en by true poets strung,
Have either broken been, or long forgotten hung.