'HE sun is low, as ocean's flow
Heaves to the strand in breakers white;
And sea-birds seek their wild retreat
Where cliffs reflect the fading light.
The billow gleams in parting beams, And sighs upon the lonely shore,
Whilst childhood stands upon the sands To greet the coming fisher's oar.
Swift to my heart the waves impart Another dream of restless life,
As some proud mind the fierce fates bind, Or doom to vain and endless strife.
The waves are bright with peace to-night, And gladly bound 'neath summer's reign; I tread the verge of the shelving surge, To muse upon its wild refrain.
O deep thy winds, in murmuring chimes Sweet to my ear, my love implore,
Thou dost enthral with siren call, And tempt me from thy peaceful shore!
Yes, o'er thy graves, thy heaving waves, A stern delight with danger dwells;
There's buoyant life amid thy strife, And rapture in thy lonely dells.
E'en in thy wrath, thy surging path Hath peril's joy beyond thy shores' Amid the glare of thy despair,
The soul above thy terror soars.
But 'neath thy smile there's death and wile,
The dark abyss, the waiting grave!
Thy surges close o'er human woes
On distant strand, in secret cave!
Insatiate sea! oh, where is she
Who trod in love thy gathered sands?
Thou gavest her back as wreck and wrack, Pallid, to sad, imploring hands!
And where is he, O sea! O sea! Who dared thy treacherous crests to ride? The quick command, the hastening hand,
Were vain to rescue from thy tide!
Yet not in woe the plaint should go Against thee for the storm's behest;
Thou'rt but the slave when wild winds rave
And tyrant tempests lash thy breast.
Doomed in thy keep the fates to meet,
Thou dost obey a mightier wrath!
Imperious sway commands thy way,
And riots in its reckless path.
Shall time's swift flight e'er stay thy might That dooms us to thy caves unblest!
Or God's right arm thy tides disarm,
And soothe to peace thy long unrest?
No still thy waves with moaning staves
Shall heave thy gray sands to the shore,
And thou shalt roll o'er depth and shoal
Forever and forevermore!
WILLIAM Whitehead
T is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility,
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea;
Listen! the mighty being is awake.
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear child dear girl! that walk'st with me here
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
ON THE LOSS OF "THE ROYAL GEORGE
WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED: 1782
POLL for the brave
The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore. Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset.
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone,
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock
His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.
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'N vain the cords and axes were prepared, For now the audacious seas insult the yard; High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade And o'er her burst in terrible cascade. Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, Her shattered top half buried in the skies, Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground; Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound! Her giant-bulk the dread concussion feels, And quivering with the wound in torment reels. So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes, The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows. Again she plunges! hark! a second shock Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock: Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes In wild despair; while yet another stroke, With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak; Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell The lurking demons of destruction dwell, At length asunder torn her frame divides, And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides. O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art To wake to sympathy the feeling heart;
Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress
In all the pomp of exquisite distress,
Then too severely taught by cruel fate,
To share in all the perils I relate,
Then might I with unrivalled strains deplore
The impervious horrors of a leeward shore!
As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast hung,
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung;
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast,
And there by oozy tangles grappled fast.
Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' rage,
Unequal combat with their fate to wage;
Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below.
Some, from the main-yard arm impetuous thrown
On marble ridges, die without a groan.
Three with Palemon on their skill depend,
NE night came on a hurricane,
The sea was mountains rolling,
When Barney Buntline turned his quid,
And said to Billy Bowling:
"A strong nor'wester's blowing, Bill;
Hark! don't ye hear it roar now?
Lord help 'em, how I pities them
Unhappy folks on shore now!
"Foolhardy chaps who live in towns, What danger they are all in,
And now lie quaking in their beds,
For fear the roof shall fall in :
Poor creatures! how they envies us,
And wishes, I've a notion,
For our good luck, in such a storm,
To be upon the ocean!
"And as for them who're out all day
On business from their houses, And late at night are coming home,
To cheer their babes and spouses,While you and I, Bill, on the deck
Are comfortably lying,
My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots Above their heads are flying!
"And very often have we heard
How men are killed and undone
By overturns of carriages,
By thieves and fires in London.
We know what risks all landsmen run,
From noblemen to tailors;
Then, Bill, let us thank Providence
That you and I are sailors."
WILL go back to the great sweet mother-
Mother and lover of men, the sea.
I will go down to her, I and none other,
Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me:
Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast.
O fair white mother, in days long past
Born without sister, born without brother,
Set free my soul as thy soul is free.
O fair green-girdled mother of mine,
Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain,
Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine,
Thy large embraces are keen like pain.
Save me and hide me with all thy waves,
Find me one grave of thy thousand graves,
Those pure cold populous graves of thine-
Wrought without hand in a world without stain.
I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships,
Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ;
My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips,
I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside;
Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were—
Filled full with life to the eyes and hair,
As a rose is full filled to the rose-leaf tips
With splendid summer and perfume and pride.
This woven raiment of nights and days,
Were it once cast off and unwouud from me, Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways,
Alive and aware of thy waves and thee;
Clear of the whole world, hidden at home,
Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam,
A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays,
A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
'HE mackerel boats sailed slowly out
Into the darkening sea,
But the gray gull's flight was landward,
The kestrel skimmed the lea.
Strange whisperings were in the air;
And though no leaflet stirred,
The echo of the distant storm,
The moaning sough, was heard.
It came the swift-winged hurricane-
Bursting upon the shore,
Till the wild bird's nest and the fisher's cot
All trembled at its roar.
And women wept, and watched and wept,
And prayed for the night to wane;
HE sea is calm to-night,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the Straits;-on the French coast, the
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window; sweet is the night air!
Only from the long line of spray
Where the ebb meets the moon-blanched san,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves suck back, and fling,
At their return upon the high strand.
Begin and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
THOU vast ocean! ever sounding sea!
Thou symbol of a drear immensity?
Thou thing that windest round the solid
world
Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone!
Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep,
Thou speakest in the East and in the West
At once, and on thy heavily laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife.
The earth has naught of this: no chance or change
Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare
Give answer to the tempest wakened air;
But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range
At will, and wound its bosom as they go;
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow:
But in their stated rounds the seasons come,
And pass like visions to their wonted home;
And come again, and vanish; the young Spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming,
And Winter always winds his sullen horn,
When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn,
And watched and prayed, though the setting sun Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies
Lit up the window-pane.
"A sail!" That sail is not for you;
It slowly fades away.
The sun may set; the moon may rise;
The night may turn to day;
Slow years roll by, and the solemn stars
Glide on-but all in vain!
They have sailed away on a long, long voyage;
They'll never come back again.
Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies.
O, wonderful thou art, great element,
And fearful in thy spleeny humors bent,
And lovely in repose! thy summer form
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach,—
Eternity-eternity-and power.
BRYAN W. PROCTER (Barry Cornwall).
HAVE seen a curious child, who dwelt upon a
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell
To which in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely, and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy; for from within were heard
Murmurings whereby the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power;
And central peace, subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation.
EEP in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold fish rove;
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of
blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow:
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift
Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,
For the winds and the waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air:
There with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter:
There with a light and easy motion
The fan coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea;
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the waves his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
When the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on the shore,
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.
JAMES GATES Percival.
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O stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be,
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape bell.
The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day ;
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck
And fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the hock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away,
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon." "Can'st hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore; Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape bell."
They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock:
Cried they, "It is the Inchcape Rock!"
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
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"O sea! to sea! the calm is o'er,
The wanton water leaps in sport,
And rattles down the pebbly shore,
The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort,
And unseen mermaid's pearly song
Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:
To sea! to sea! the calm is o'er.
To sea! to sea! our white-winged bark
Shall billowing cleave its watery way,
And with its shadow, fleet and dark,
Break the caved Triton's azure day,
Like mountain eagle soaring light
O'er antelopes on Alpine height.
The anchor heaves! The ship swings free,
Our sails swell full! To sea! to sea!
And sends the fowls to us in care
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples, plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by his hand
From Lebanon he stores the land;
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound his name;
O, let our voice his praise exalt
Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which then perhaps rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay!"—
Thus sung they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
ANDREW MARVELL.
H! I shall not forget until memory depart,
When first I beheld it, the glow of my heart;
The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole
o'er me,
When its billowy boundlessness opened before me.
As I stood on its margin, or roamed on its strand.
I felt new ideas within me expand,
Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that hour, And my spirit was mute in the presence of power! In the surf-beaten sands that encircled it round, In the billow's retreat, and the breakers rebound, In its white-drifted foam, and its dark-heaving green, Each moment I gazed, some fresh beauty was seen. And thus, while I wandered on ocean's bleak shore, SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA. And surveyed its vast surface, and heard its waves
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