Ah! meagre happiness! and hopes that reach And, on the plain of the old Permanence, All continents and isles with mirth, And music of unconquerable hope That Light and Freedom shall be earth's, as they are thine. Oh, old Consoler! that dost tenderly In thy great longing merge my day-born pain, And bid all vulgar aspirations flee! The nobler earth is built of stubborn good; Appeal to men's applause or wonder, Warn him away with thy deep thunder! Flash o'er the graven sands a liberal wave Mild, herald beams, wooing the folded sight, Shed warmth far down in many a sunless nook. Thank God, there are no eyes in which we look, But some heart's love doth lend them beauteous light! Dreams that prefigure hopes, and hopes that take Fresh courage from all life-from starlight bold, Sung softly in by whippoorwills — From sunset's broad'ning sails, o'er hills Afar-and from the earth that grows not old, — Float lightly o'er our heads, whether we sleep or wake. Alas! to her high place, through sea-deep tears, Is The base, triumphant despot of a day weary Anarch of a thousand years. And yet this many a spring the boughs are sheen Aspire to lead earth's struggling thought Still up ;-bring what from full hearts gushes free; mean. When morning, loosing from its crimson drifts, Unites and separates, and still Wreathes it and builds anew beyond despair; Till song is light-light, song-through all heaven's steadfast signs. O know how all things change! Night's violet star Erewhile bloomed red; and thou, Sea, wear'st away The glorious realm of a forgotten day, But lay'st the pillars of a fairer far, Deep in thy caverned bed. For all that ever Or aught that simply blooms or strives In each new fabric of the world, is wove Afresh, and changes like the light, but passes never. ANNE WHITNEY. THE SOUND OF THE SEA. THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea, For ever and the same! The ancient rocks yet ring to thee, Oh! many a glorious voice is gone, The Dorian flute that sighed of yore Along thy wave, is still; The harp of Judah peals no more On Zion's awful hill. And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord That breath'd the mystic tone, And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs pour'd, Are with her eagles flown. 3 And mute the Moorish horn, that rang O'er stream and mountain free, And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang, Hath died in Galilee. But thou art swelling on, thou deep, Thou liftest up thy solemn voice And all our earth's green shores rejoice It fills the noontide's calm profound, Let there be silence deep and strange, Thou speak'st of One who doth not change HYMN OF THE SEA. THE sea is mighty, but a Mightier sways His restless billows. Thou, whose hands have scooped That moved in the beginning o'er his face Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle, That bears them, with the riches of the land, |