THE LIFE OF SEAS. THESE grassy vales are warm and deep, Where willows dip and kiss the dimples of the brook. But all too close against my face My thick breath feels these crowding trees; I miss the Life of Seas; The wild free life that round the flinty shores So free, so far, that in the lull of even, Nought but the rising moon stands in your path to heaven. These inland love-bowers sweetly bloom, White with the hawthorn's summer snows; Along soft turf a purple bloom The elm at sunset throws; There the fond lover, listening for the sweet But Love his pain as sweetly tells Pave the smooth, glistening shore,— Or if (like some) thou'st loved in vain, And dare the Thunder, rolling up behind Grief-wasted cheek, pour forth as bitter keen a tale. For in that sleepless, tumbling tide,— Sick with desires unsatisfied, Dwell life and balm to heal. Raise thy free sail, and seek o'er ocean's breast B. SIMMONS. THE SPELL OF THE SEA. I NEVER think without a thrill Of wild and pure delight Of all the leagues of blue, blue sea, With moon and stars, at morn and eve, In sunny wind or shower, How often hath it worked in me, With joyous spells of power! O it is well sick men should go Unto the royal sea; For on their souls, as on a glass, From its bright fields the breath doth pass Of its infinity. My mother taught me how to love The mystery of the sea; She sported with my childish wonder When in my soul dim thoughts awoke, I learned from ocean's murmurings In gentle moods I love the hills F. W. FABER. O YE KEEN BREEZES. O YE keen breezes from the salt Atlantic, For, in the surf ye scattered to the sunshine, Then to the meadows beautiful and fragrant, Where the coy Spring beholds her earliest verdure Brighten with smiles that rugged sea-side hamlet, How would we hasten! 19 There under elm-trees affluent in foliage, Vainly the sailor called you from your slumber : Like a glazed pavement shone the level ocean; While, with the snow-white canvass idly drooping, Stood the tall vessels. And when, at length, exulting ye awakened, Playmates, old playmates, hear my invocation! When shall I feel your breath upon my forehead? When shall I hear you in the elm-trees' branches? When shall we wrestle in the briny surges, Friends of my boyhood? EPES SARGENT. |