Caroline Clive (1801–1873)

AS one whose country is distraught with war,

Where each must guard his own with watchful hand,

Roams at the evening hour along the shore

And fain would seek beyond a calmer land;

So I, perplex’d on life’s tumultuous way,

Where evil pow’rs too oft my soul enslave,

Along thy ocean, Death, all pensive stray,

And think of shores thy pensive billows lave.

And glad were I to hear the boatman’s cry,

Which to his shadowy bark my steps should call,

To woe and weakness heave my latest sigh,

And cease to combat where so oft I fall:

Or, happier, where some victory cheer’d my breast,

That hour to quit the anxious field would choose,

And seek th’ eternal seal on virtue’s rest,

Oft won, oft lost, and O! too dear to lose!