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Count Arnaldos ! Count Arnaldos !
Hearts I read, and thoughts I know; -
From the Spanish.
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-colored shells,
Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea !
We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the Depths have more !— What wealth
untold, 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 the world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Seaweed 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 gathered 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 reclaim her precious things from thee; Restore the dead, thou Sea!
THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD.
Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea,
And with that boding cry
Along the waves dost thou fly? 0! rather, Bird, with me
Through the fair land rejoice!
II. Thy flitting form comes ghostly, dim, and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea ;
Thy cry is weak and scared,
As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wail —
What does it bring to me?
Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Restless and sad; as if in strange accord
With the motion and the roar
Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge —
The Mystery — The Word.
Iv. Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall, Old Ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead,
From out thy gloomy cells
A tale of mourning tells Tells of man's woe and fall,
His sinless glory fled.
Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring
Thy spirit never more.
Come, quit with me the shore,
R. H. Dana.
SLEET, and Hail, and Thunder!
And ye Winds that rave
Tinge the sullen wave –
Winds that like a demon
Howl with horrid note Round the toiling seaman
In his tossing boat
From his humble dwelling
On the shingly shore, Where the billows swelling
Keep such hollow roar —
From that weeping woman
Seeking with her cries Succor superhuman
From the frowning skies
From the urchin pining
For his father's knee From the lattice shining
Drive him out to sea !
Let broad leagues dissever
Him from yonder foam ; -