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HAMPTON BEACH.

Serene and mild the untried light

May have its dawning;
And, as in Summer's northern light

The evening and the dawn unite,
The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new

morning.

I sit alone: in foam and spray

Wave after wave
Breaks on the rocks which, stern and grey,

Beneath like fallen Titans lay,
Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft and

cave.

What heed I of the dusty land

And noisy town?
I see the mighty deep expand

From its white line of glimmering sand
To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts

down!

In listless quietude of mind,

I yield to all
The change of cloud and wave and wind,

And passive on the flood reclined,
I wander with the waves, and with them rise and fall.

But look, thou dreamer ! — wave and shore

In shadow lie;
The night-wind warns me back once more

To where my native hill-tops o'er
Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky!

So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell !

I bear with me
No token stone nor glittering shell,

But long and oft shall Memory tell
Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the sea.

J. G. WHITTIER.

THE SEA.

It keeps eternal whisperings around

Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell

Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,

That scarcely will the very smallest shell

Be moved for days from where it sometime fell, When last the winds of heaven were unbound. Oh, ye who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,

Feast them upon the wideness of the sea; Oh, ye whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,

Or fed too much with cloying melody, Sit yè near some old cavern's mouth, and brood Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired !

KEATS.

APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin - his control
Stops with the shore ;— upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields
Are not a spoil for him, -thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray

His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth :- there let him lay.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make

Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war:
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,

They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mạr
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee -
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts :— not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, · Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm,

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sublime -
The image of Eternity — the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

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 wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me

NATCRE'S WORSHIP.

25

Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror—'t was 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 mane — as I do here.

BYRON.

The ocean looketh up to heaven,

As 't were a living thing;
The homage of its waves is given,

In ceaseless worshipping.

They kneel upon the sloping sand

As bends the human knee,
A beautiful and tireless band,

The priesthood of the sea.

The sky is as a temple’s arch,

The blue and wavy air
Is glorious with the spirit-march
Of messengers at prayer.

J. G. WHITTIER.

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