Judson's Grave.

He sleeps where the billow
    Lifts high its white crest
O'er his lone, sea-weed pillow
    On Ocean's dark breast;
No shroud is around him,
    No flowers bloom above,
No mourners surround him
    With grief-drops of love.

But the limitless ocean
    His requiem sings,
As, with tireless motion,
    The green billow springs
Toward the infinite heaven,
    Blue, bending above,
Where angels are watching
    His slumbers in love.

Oh! boundless his tomb is,
    Far-reaching, sublime,
Stretching forth in immenseness
    To every clime;
Thus boundless his love was,
    On every side
Spreading freely wherever
    Man sorrowed or died.

Sleep, Judson! no grave-dust
    Shall rest on thy head,
In sunlight or starlight
    No marble shall shed
Its shadow sepulchral
    Above thee, - no tomb
Save Earth's grandest and vastest,
    May give to thee room!

Man marks not thy pillow
    With yew-tree or stone;
But God, o'er the billow,
    Keeps watch of His own;
And glorious thy rising,
    O crowned one, will be,
When Jehovah shall summon
    His dead from the sea!

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Pamela S. Vining, also known by her pseudonym J. C. Yule, was an English poet whose work was recognized in the 19th century. Despite her significant contribution to English poetry, detailed information about her life, including her birth and death dates, remains elusive. She remains a noteworthy figure in the canon of English literature for her emotive and thought-provoking poetry.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Jesus The Souls Rest.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Song - Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Crossing The Red Sea

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Brother, Rest.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

English

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The Eye That Never Sleeps

When the heavy, midnight shadows
    Gather o'er a slumbering world,
And the banner folds of darkness
    Are in gloomy pomp unfurled, -
Think, lone watcher, pale and tearful,
    In thy sad, unpitied lot,
By the death couch waking, weeping,
    There is One who slumbers not! -
One who, though no mourning brother
    Share thy vigils lone and drear,
Loving, pitying, as no other
    Loves or pities, watches near!

When the waves, o'erwrought by tempest,
    Lift their strong arms to the skies,
And amid the inky darkness
    Shrieks of winds and waters rise, -
Mariner, 'mid doubt and danger,
    Wildly tossed upon the deep,
Think, o'er all in power presiding
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Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Sutherlands Grave

All night long the sea out yonder all night long the wailful sea,
Vext of winds and many thunders, seeketh rest unceasingly!
Seeketh rest in dens of tempest, where, like one distraught with pain,
Shouts the wild-eyed sprite, Confusion seeketh rest, and moans in vain:
Ah! but you should hear it calling, calling when the haggard sky
Takes the darks and damps of Winter with the mournful marsh-fowls cry;
Even while the strong, swift torrents from the rainy ridges come
Leaping down and breaking backwards million-coloured shapes of foam!
Then, and then, the sea out yonder chiefly looketh for the boon
Portioned to the pleasant valleys and the grave sweet summer moon:
Boon of Peace, the still, the saintly spirit of the dew-dells deep
Yellow dells and hollows haunted by the soft, dim dreams o...

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Under The Sea.

Deep in the bosom of the ocean,
    Where sunshine fades to twilight gloom,
    The pure pearls lie, and the coral bloom
Rests unsway'd by the upper motion--
    Calm and still the hours pass by
    The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

The thunder rolls from cloud to cloud,
    And the bitter blast sweeps o'er the sea,
    Shaking the waters mightily;
But ne'er the tempest's voice so loud,
    Sinketh down to the things that lie--
    The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

The icebergs crack with a sullen boom,
    Riven by the hands of the angry North;
    And, like the Angel of Wrath sent forth,
The whirlwind stalks with the breath of doom,
    Crushing, like dust 'neath its ...

Walter R. Cassels

Gone Before

(IN MEMORY OF A PUPIL)


            Thou art but gone before -
            Gone to that unknown shore
Toward which my feet are journeying swiftly on
            Thou hast but laid thy head
            First with the dreamless dead,
I, too, shall come, and share thy rest anon.

            Methinks 'twas sweet to die,
            Ere childhood's purity
Had been polluted by sin's withering breath;
            Ere Care's pale, haggard mien
            Thy laughing eye had seen,
Or thou hadst wept beside the bed of death!

            We weep - yet thou art blest!
            We mourn - but thou'rt at rest!
Well may we weep, yet, lost one, not for thee!
            Not that thy race is run,
            Thy brief life-journey...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Longings

Sleep, gentle, mysterious healer,
    Come down with thy balm-cup to me!
Come down, O thou mystic revealer
    Of glories the day may not see!
For dark is the cloud that is o'er me,
    And heavy the shadows that fall,
And lone is the pathway before me,
    And far-off the voice that doth call -
        Faintly, yet tenderly ever,
            From over the dark river, call.

Let me bask for an hour in the sun-ray
    That wraps him forever in light;
Awhile tread his flowery pathway
    Through bowers of unfailing delight; -
Again clasp the hands I lost sight of
    In the chill mist that hung o'er the tide,
What time, with the pale, silent boatman,
    I saw him away from me glide -
        Out into the fathomless myst'ry,
            All s...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Drowned

[Footnote: In the Grand River, at Brantford, July 30th, 1875, Miss Jessie Hamilton, adopted daughter of C.H. Waterous, Esq., Brantford, aged 14 years and 3 months, and Miss Ella E. Murton, only daughter of John W. Murton, Esq., Hamilton, aged 14 years.]


    The morning dawned without a cloud,
But evening came with pall and shroud, -
With muffled step, and bated breath,
And mournful whisperings of - death!

            *            *            *

    Young lips, that in the morning sung
The summer's opening flowers among,
Were hushed and cold; - young, laughing eyes,
That met the dawn with sweet surprise,
Were darkly sealed; - young feet, that pressed
The dewy turf with glad unrest,
Were cold and stirless, never more
To tread the paths they trod ...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)