THE MARINER'S DREAM. 'N slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay; His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers, And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise; Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport, he raises the latch, A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; His cheek is bedewed with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells, Joy quickens his pulses-his hardships seem o'er; Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain. And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest-Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! "O God! thou hast blest me,—I ask for no more." We ask not such from thee. Ah! whence is that flame which now glares on his Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth uneye? Ah! what is that sound which now bursts on his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere! He springs from his hammock,-he flies to the deck; Like mountains the billows tremendously swell; O sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss; Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright,— Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? told, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal aigosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! Earth claims not these again! Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath filled 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 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 R FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. TO CERTAIN GOLDEN FISHES. ESTLESS forms of living light, Quivering on your lucid wings, Or of the shade of golden flowers, As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, Is but the task of weary pain, HARTLEY Coleridge. OUR BOAT TO THE WAVES. UR boat to the waves go free, By the bending tide, where the curled wave breaks, Like the track of the wind on the white snow-flakes: Away, away! 'T is a path o'er the sea. Blasts may rave,-spread the sail, For our spirits can wrest the power from the wind, And the gray clouds yield to the sunny mind, Fear not we the whirl of the gale. WILLIAM Ellery ChaNNING. THE SEA. HE sea! the sea! the open sea! It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be ; With the blue above, and the blue below, If a storm should come and awake the deep, I love, oh how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, I never was on the dull tame shore, The waves were white, and red the morn, I've lived since then, in calm and strife, With wealth to spend and a power to range, BRYAN W. PROCTER. (Barry Cornwall.) THE LIGHT-HOUSE. 'HE scene was more beautiful far to the eye, The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure- Looked pure as the spirit that made it : On the shadowy waves' playful motion, No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope, And o'er them the light-house looked lovely as hope— The time is long past, and the scene is afar, Will memory sometimes rekindle the star, That blazed on the breast of the billow: In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, THOMAS MOORE. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. a WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast, my boys, Old England on the lee. Oh, for a soft and gentle wind! And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, The lightning flashing free- ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. REAT Ocean! strongest of creation's sons, Loud uttering satire, day and night, on each Thou bowedst thy glorious head to none, fearedst none, Heardst none, to none didst honor, but to God Thy Maker, only worthy to receive Thy great obeisance. ROBERT POLLOK. OUD roared the dreaded thunder, In the Bay of Biscay, O! Now dashed upon the billow, None stops the dreadful leak; At length the wished-for morrow Each heaved a bitter sigh; HE most fearful and impressive exhibitions of power known to our globe, belong to the ocean. The volcano, with its ascending flame and falling torrents of fire, and the earthquake, whose footstep is on the ruin of cities, are circumscribed in the desolating range of their visitations. But the ocean, when it once rouses itself in its chainless strength, shakes a thousand shores with its storm and thunder. Navies of oak and iron are tossed in mockery from its crest, and armaments, manned by the strength and courage of millions, perish among its bubbles. |