And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers-they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear;
For I was, as it were, a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy wave-as I do here.
BYRON.
THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.
WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main! Pale glist'ning pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells, Bright things which gleam unwreck d of and in Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the Depths have more!-What wealth
Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main! Earth claims not these again.
Yet more, the Depths have more!-Thy waves have roll'd
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!
Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay.
Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast;
They hear not now the booming waters roar,-
The battle thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave.
Give back the lost and lovely!-Those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,-But all is not thine own.
To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown; Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead! Earth shall claim her precious things from thee,Restore the Dead, thou Sea! FELICIA HEMANS.
SILENCE BY THE SEA.
OCEAN in slumbering beauty meekly lies,
Like a tired babe hush'd at its mother's breast,
Lull'd by the soothing aspect of the skies
Into sweet silence and a dreamless rest.
And the fond Sun, with looks benign and mild,
Throws a soft arm of light around his favorite child
The home-bound bee his evening hymn is singing,
Through the wild thyme, in many a mossy dell,
And the drone beetle, round the high cliffs winging,
Mingles his murmurs with the vesper bell,
While the sweet nightingale, with plaintive lay,
A holy requiem chants, o'er the expiring day.
Now all is still;-gone the soft evening's breath-
Ocean, that with the day-breeze talk'd so loud,
Is voiceless as the sweet repose of death,
And twilight thickens o'er her as a shroud;
While the first night-star, glowing in the west,
Is to her blue escutcheon, as an heraldic crest.
O voiceless waters, silent but not dumb,
Ye have a language, and a witching power,
That to the heart would like a prophet come,
To tell of things beyond this fleeting hour,
To rouse us unto deeds above this earth,
And give a thousand hopes and aspirations birth.
And, gazing on this wide and tranquil sea,
Merged in obscurity and gloom sublime,
The soul drinks deeply from immensity,
And bursts the barriers of all space and time;
Would, with the fervour of sweet longing, sigh
For her desired release, the dreaded bliss-to die.
Wildly she beats against the ribbed bars
Of her dark fleshy cage, and fain would spring
Upwards, to build her nest among the stars,
And at heaven's gate a joyful note would sing.
Onwards again she wings her ardent flight,
And hears a welcome shout from God's own throne
of light.
Whence comes this rapture?-Tis God's Spirit
Into the inmost depths of the calm soul, [beaming
Until it sparkles with a heavenly gleaming,
Beyond the power of Nature to control;
Reflecting for a moment the pure springs
Of heaven's eternal bliss, and of her hidden things.
Silence, thou art the mother of a joy
Too high for passion, and too deep for tears,
Purging our nature from its gross alloy,
And warring in its world of many fears,
Till immortality breaks in, and shines
Like the bright lightning flash in closed and dismal mines.
Not vainly do they worship, who, in still
And solemn silence, draw their souls away
From things of earth, that things of heaven may fill The longing tenant of this house of clay.
Whirlwind and storm before the prophet pastThe "still small voice" was heard-in silence at the last.
O placid Ocean! like a mirror spread
Before the star-crown'd majesty of night.
Thus, looking on thee, is the spirit led
To open widely unto heaven's light.
Thus lull'd and tranquil must the bosom be,
To mirror its great Lord, its saviour Deity!
W. MARTIN.
I LIVE not in myself, but I become,
Portion of that around me; and to me
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture; I can see
• The Society of Friends.
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.
And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life,
I look upon the peopled desert past,
As on a place of agony and strife;
Where for some sin, to sorrow I was cast,
To act and suffer, but remount at last
With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast, Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.
And when at length the mind shall be all free
From what it hates in this degraded form,
'Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
Existent happier in the fly and worm,-
When elements to elements conform,
And dust is as it should be; shall I not
Feel all I see less dazzling, but more warm?
The bodiless thought? the spirit of each spot?
Of which, even now, I share at times the immor
tal lot?
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion, should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these; and stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
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