  Delicate, fragile, tiny shell, Thou hast a wondrous tale to tell. I find thee here on the ocean strand;— The billows have borne thee safe to land: Yet those billows have proved the proud ship’s grave, And have mocked the power of man to save, As its shattered fragments far and wide Were strewn on the shore by the surging tide. But thou art here, and all unharmed! Say, how hast thou its fury charmed, That its mighty waves on their foaming breast Should bear thee safe to a place of rest? The rock rears high his haughty form, And challenges proud the ocean storm; And he tosses the wild waves raging back, As his challenge provokes their fierce attack. But again, and again, and again they come; And vainly the rock resists its doom: The waves are mighty, and know their might:— “Never have we been vanquished in fight! We kiss the sands of the yielding shore, We rend the rock in his pride of power: Be it soon, be it late, thy fate is sealed; Be it soon, be it late, thou shalt surely yield.” —And it yields at last: with a headlong leap It buries its shame in the foaming deep, And the waves toss high their plumy spray, As they dance triumphant around their prey. And yet, little shell, I find thee here, And nothing hath wrought thee harm or fear; Though shattered rocks, and a wreck-strewn shore, Give tokens dire of the ocean’s power. Tell me, tiny, beautiful thing! Filmy and frail as the butterfly’s wing;— An infant’s finger could crush thee to dust;— What hast thou then wherein to trust? And whence thy courage and power to brave The surging might of the wild sea wave? “I have not braved the ocean’s might; I reared no front with the waves to fight. I yielded me meek to the billow’s force, As it swept me along in its onward course. My weakness was strength in the tempest’s hour, And my safety I found in the ocean’s power.” . . . . . . . . . . And here, if he would, might man discern A truth he is “slow of heart” to learn. He rears his will ’gainst the will of heaven,— And his proudest plans are to fragments riven. Let him meekly yield to the sovereign sway That even the sea’s “proud waves” obey; And though over life’s ocean tempests roar, And wrecks are strewn over “life’s last shore,” Borne like the shell on the billow’s breast, He shall land in a haven of endless rest. 1858. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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