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Glittering, the sunny surge; thy mariners,
So wert thou glorious on the seas, and saidst,
William Lisle Bowles.
THE wild and windy morning is lit with lurid fire ; The thundering surf of ocean beats on the rocks And hurls its foamy volume along the hollow shores, And calls with hungry clamor, that speaks its long
of Tyre, Beats on the fallen columns and round the headland
desire : “Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships
Within her cunning hạrbor, choked with invading sand, No galleys bring their freightage, the spoils of every
land, And like a prostrate forest, when autumn gales have
blown, Her colonnades of granite lie shattered and o’erthrown; And from the reef the pharos no longer flings its fire, To beacon home from Tarshish the lordly ships of
Where is thy rod of empire, once mighty on the
waves, Thou that thyself exaltedst, till kings became thy slaves ? Thou that didst speak to nations, and saw thy will
obeyed, Whose favor made them joyful, whose anger sore
afraid, Who laid'st thy deep foundations, and thought them
strong and sure, And boasted midst the waters, Shall I not aye endure ?
Where is the wealth of ages that beaped thy princely
mart? The pomp of purple trappings; the gems of Syrian
The silken goats of Kedar; Sabæa's spicy store;
bore, When in thy gates triumphant they entered from the
With sound of horn and sackbut, of harp and psaltery?
Howl, howl, ye ships of Tarshish! the glory is laid
waste : There is no habitation; the mansions are defaced. No mariners of Sidon unfurl your mighty sails ; No workmen fell the fir-trees that grow in Shenir's
vales, And Bashan's oaks that boasted a thousand years of
sun, Or hew the masts of cedar on frosty Lebanon.
Rise, thou forgotten harlot! take up thy harp and
sing: Call the rebellious islands to own their ancient king: Bare to the spray thy bosom, and with thy hair un
bound, Sit on the piles of ruin, thou throneless and dis
crowned ! There mix thy voice of wailing with the thunders of
And sing thy songs of sorrow, that thou remembered
Though silent and forgotten, yet Nature still laments The pomp and power departed, the lost magnificence : The hills were proud to see thee, and they are sadder
now; The sea was proud to bear thee, and wears a troubled
brow, And evermore the surges chant forth their vain desire: “Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of Tyre?”
THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH.
THERE fell no rain on Israel. The sad trees,
. , Reft of their coronals, and the crisp vines, And flowers whose dewless bosoms sought the dust, Mourned the long drought. The miserable herds Pined on, and perished mid the scorching fields, And near the vanished fountains where they used Freely to slake their thirst, the moaning flocks Laid their parched mouths, and died.
A holy man, Who saw high visions of unuttered things, Dwelt in deep-musing solitude apart Upon the banks of Cherith. Dark-winged birds, Intractable and fierce, were strangely moved To shun the hoarse cries of their callow brood, And night and morning lay their gathered spoils Down at his feet. So of the brook he drank, Till pitiless suns exhaled that slender rill
Which, singing, used to glide to Jordan's breast.
The man of God,
A blessing fell From the majestic guest, and every morn The empty store which she had wept at eve, Mysteriously replenished, woke the joy That ancient Israel felt when round their camp The manna lay like dew. Thus many days They fed, and the poor famine-stricken boy Looked up with a clear eye, while vigorous health Flushed with unwonted crimson his pure cheek, And bade the fair flesh o'er his wasted limbs