And treasure of dear lives, till in the port The shouting seaman climbs and furls the sail.
But who shall bide thy tempest, who shall face The blast that wakes the fury of the sea? O God! thy justice makes the world turn pale, When on the armed fleet, that royally Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite Some city, or invade some thoughtless realm, Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks Are whirled like chaff upon the waves; the sails Fly, rent like webs of gossamer; the masts Are snapped asunder; downward from the decks, Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf, Their cruel engines; and their hosts, arrayed In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks. Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause, A moment, from the bloody work of war.
These restless surges eat away the shores Of earth's old continents; the fertile plain Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down, And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar In the green chambers of the middle sea,
Where broadest spread the waters and the line Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy work, Creator! thou dost teach the coral worm To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age He builds beneath the waters till at last
His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check The long wave rolling from the southern pole To break upon Japan. Thou bidst the fires That smoulder under ocean, heave on high The new-made mountains, and uplift their peaks, A place of refuge for the storm-driven bird. The birds and wafting billows plant the rifts
With herb and tree; sweet fountains gush; sweet airs Ripple the living lakes that, fringed with flowers, Are gathered in the hollows. Thou dost look On thy creation and pronounce it good. Its valleys, glorious with their summer green, Praise thee in silent beauty, and its woods, Swept by the murmuring winds of ocean, join The murmuring shores in a perpetual hymn.
THE ocean, at the bidding of the moon, Forever changes with his restless tide; Flung shoreward now, to be re-gather'd soon With kingly pauses of reluctant pride
And semblance of return: -Anon from home He issues forth anew, high-ridged and free – The gentlest murmur of his seething foam, Like armies whispering where great echoes be! Oh leave me here upon this beach to rove, Mute listener to that sound, so grand and lone A glorious sound, deep drawn and strongly thrown, And reaching those on mountain-heights above, To British ears (as who shall scorn to own?) A tutelar fond voice, a saviour-tone of love! CHARLES TENNYSON.
WHO had ever such adventure, Holy priest or virgin nun, As befel the Count Arnaldos At the rising of the sun?
On his wrist the hawk was hooded, Forth with horn and hound went he, When he saw a stately galley
Sailing on the silent sea.
Sail of satin, mast of cedar, Burnished poop of beaten gold,- Many a morn you'll hood your falcon, Ere you such a bark behold.
Sails of satin, masts of cedar, Golden poops may come again, But mortal ear no more shall listen To yon grey-haired sailor's strain.
Heart may beat, and eye may glisten, Faith is strong, and Hope is free, But mortal ear no more shall listen To the song that rules the sea.
When the grey-haired sailor chaunted, Every wind was hushed to sleep,-
Like a virgin's bosom panted All the wide reposing deep.
Bright in beauty rose the star-fish From her green cave down below, Right above the eagle poised him— Holy music charmed them so.
'Stately galley! glorious galley!
God hath poured his grace on thee! Thou alone mayst scorn the perils Of the dread devouring sea!
'False Almeria's reefs and shallows, Black Gibraltar's giant rocks,
Sound and sand-bank, gulf and whirlpool, All, my glorious galley mocks!'
For the sake of God our Maker!'
(Count Arnaldos' cry was strong)
'Old man, let me be partaker
In the secret of thy song!'
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