ATLANTIC COMBERS.

THE pure green waves !—with crests of dazzling foam ashine,

Onward they roll: innumerably grand, they beat A wild and jubilant triumph-music all divine !

The seafowl, their white kindred of the spray-swept air,

Scream joyous echoes as with wave-dipped pinions fleet

They whirl before the blast, or vanish 'mid blown sleet : In loud-resounding, strenuous, conquering play they

fare,

Like clouds, high over dead forgotten lands i' the brineGreat combing deep-sea waves with sunlit foam ashine.

WILLIAM SHARP.

THE SEA IN BONDAGE.

HARK to the long resilient surge o' the ebbing tide :
With shingly rush and roar it foams adown the strand :
The great Sea heaves her restless bosom far and wide-
Heedless she seems of winds and all the forceful laws
That bar her empire over the usurping Land:
Enough, she dreams, is her imperial command

To make the very torrents, waveward falling, pause: She scorns the Bridegroom-Land, yet is a subject Bride, For She must come and go with each recurrent tide.

WILLIAM SHARP.

THE SWIMMER AT SUNRISE.

WHILE still the dusk impends above the glimmering waste,
A tremor comes-wave after wave turns silvery bright--
A sudden yellow gleam athwart the east is traced-
The waning stars fade forth, swift-perishing pyres-
The moon lies pearly-wan upon the front of Night:
Then all at once upswells a flood of golden light
And a myriad waves flash forth a myriad fires :
Now is the hour the amplest glory of life to taste,
Out-swimming towards the sun upon the billowy waste!

WILLIAM SHARP.

THE TIDES OF VENICE.

WITH a soft, slow, gentle motion
Swings the slow tide from the sea,
Swings the slow tide hushfully
From the distant restless ocean,
Through the sinuous canals

Past the ancient wave-worn walls
That have seen the galleys sweep
With great captains of the deep,

Fresh from where the Moslem calls
The Muezzin from the steep
Temple-domes that face the sea.
With a slow and gentle motion,
Like low breathing, ceaselessly

The tide steals from the ocean,
As a cloud that thro' the sky
Ever draweth, draweth nigh
Though its white wings seem to beat
No wind that blows at all,

But lie folded calm and sweet
By its soft immaculate side-
So moves the sleeping tide

Past bridge and palace wall.
And hung in purple heaven,

God's footstool, filled with light
And wheel'd by spirits seven,

Seems the clear soul of night,
So pure, so soft, so bright-

R

The very soul it seems
Of Venice of the deep

Lying hushed and still in sleep
'Neath the glory of her beams,
Dreaming, dreaming ancient dreams.
And like silver fires aglow

The panting planets shine

And search the waters far below,
The waters that with stilly flow
Come and go

Beyond the salt sea-line.
A faint wind is playing

With the small sea waves
Above the myriad graves

O'er which move swaying, swaying
The long green tangled reeds
And grasses of the sea,
And softly stir the slimy weeds
That cling to where the salt sea laves
The stairs of palaces that be
No longer great or free.
At times, the shadows leaving,
Black shapes leap forth and glide
Like great fish on the tide-
And singing side by side

The gondolieri, cleaving

With lithe and rhythmic oar

The waters slowly heaving,

Chant their old sea-born lore,

The old monotonous song

The tides have swept for long

Round the Adriatic shore.

The very soul of mystery

Seems brooding here alone: