Onward, still onward, o'er the waves that leap
So lovelily, and show their crests of white,
The eye, unsated in its own despite,
Still up that vista gazes, till thy way
Over the waters seems a pathway bright For holiest thoughts to travel, there to pay Man's homage unto Him who bade thee "rule the day."
And thou thyself, forgetting what thou art,
Appear'st thy Maker's temple, in whose dome
The silent worship of the expanding heart
May rise, and seek its own eternal home:
The intervening billows' snowy foam,
Rising successively, seems steps of light,
Such as on Bethel's plain the angels clomb; When, to the slumbering patriarch's ravished sight, Heaven's glories were revealed in visions of the night. BARTON.
AND THIS THE CHANGE FROM MORNING TO MIDNIGHT.
THE sunshine of the morning
Is abroad upon the sea,
And mistress of the wave and wind
Yon vessel seems to be.
Like the pine-tree of the forest,
Her tall mast heavenward springs;
Her white sails bear her onwards,
Like the eagle's rushing wings.
That deck is nobly laden,
For gallant hearts are there:
What danger is they would not face,
The deed they would not dare?
The moonshine of the midnight
Is abroad upon the seas,
The waves have risen in their might
To battle with the breeze.
That ship has been the victim;
Stranded on yon bleak coast,
She has lost her mast, her winged sails,
And her deck its warlike boast.
O'er her bravest sweep the waters,
And a pale and ghastly band
Cling to the black rock's side, or pace
Like ghosts the sullen strand.
These are but few from many
Of life's chequered scenes; yet these Are but as all,-pride, power, hope, Then weakness, grief, disease.
Oh, glory of the morning!
Oh, ye gifted, young, and brave! What end have ye but midnight?
What find ye but the grave?
How beautiful the setting sun
Reposes o'er the wave!
Like virtue, life's drear warfare done,
Descending to the grave;
Yet smiling with a brow of love,
Benignant, pure, and kind,
And blessing, ere she soars above,
The realms she leaves behind.
The cloudlets, edged with crimson light,
Veil o'er the blue serene,
While swift the legions of the night
Are shadowing o'er the scene;
The sea-gull, with a wailing moan,
Upstarting, turns to seek
Its lonely dwelling-place upon
The promontory's peak.
The heaving sea,—the distant hill,—
The waving sky,—the woods,
With melancholy musing fill
The swelling heart that broods
Upon the light of other days,
Whose glories now are dull,
And on the visions hope could raise,
Vacant, but beautiful.
Where are the bright illusions vain
That fancy boded forth?
Sunk to their silent caves again,
Aurora of the north!
Oh! who would live those visions o'er,
All brilliant though they seem,
Since earth is but a desert shore,
And life a weary dream!
TRANQUIL and clear the autumnal day declined:
The barks at anchor cast their lengthened shades
On the grey bastioned walls; airs from the deep
Wandered, and touched the cordage as they passed,
Then hovered with expiring breath, and stirred
Scarce the quiescent pennant; the bright sea
Lay silent in its glorious amplitude,
Without; far up in the pale atmosphere,
A white cloud here and there hung overhead,
And some red freckles streaked the horizon's edge,
Far as the sight could reach; beneath, the rocks,
That reared their dark brows beetling o'er the bay.
The gulls and guillemots, with short quaint cry,
Just broke the sleeping stillness of the air,
Or, skimming, almost touched the level main,
With wings far seen, and more intensely white,
Opposed to the blue space! whilst Panope
Rolled in the offing. Humber's ocean-stream
Inland went sounding on, by rocks, and sands,
And castle, yet so sounding, as it seemed,
A voice, amidst the hushed and listening world,
That spoke of peace; whilst from the bastion's point
One piping red-breast might almost be heard.
Such quiet, all things hushed, so peaceable
The hour! the very swallows, ere they left
The coast, to pass a long and weary way
O'er ocean's solitude, seemed to renew
Once more their summer feelings, as a light
So sweet would last for ever, whilst they flocked
In the brief sunshine of the turret-top.
It is the midnight hour;-the beauteous sea,
Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses,
While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee,
Far down the watery sky reposes.
As if the ocean's heart were stirred
With inward life, a sound is heard,
Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep;
"Tis partly the billow, and partly the air,
That lies like a garment floating fair
Above the happy deep.
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