APPLEDORE. How looks Appledore in a storm? I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic, And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below To where they are warmed with the central fire, You could feel its granite fibres racked As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill Right at the breast of the swooping hill, And to rise again, snorting a cataract Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge, While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep, And the next vast breaker curled its edge, Gathering itself for a mightier leap. North, east, and south, there are reefs and breakers You would never dream of in smooth weather, That toss and gore the sea for acres, Bellowing, and gnashing, and snarling together; Look northward, where Duck Island lies, That glimmer and then are out of sight, While you crossed the gusty desert by night, And then as sudden a darkness should follow The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide; And surging bewilderment wild and wide, Where the breakers struggle left and right, Then a mile or more of rushing sea, And then the light-house slim and lone; And whenever the whole weight of ocean is thrown Full and fair on White Island head, A great mist-jötun you will see Lifting himself up silently High and huge o'er the light-house top, With hands of wavering spray outspread, Groping after the little tower That seems to shrink and shorten and cower, Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop, And silently and fruitlessly He sinks again into the sea. You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand, That was not there a moment before, Feeling their way to you more and more; If they once should clutch you high as the knees, They would hurl you down like a sprig of kelp, Beyond all reach of hope or help ; And such in a storm is Appledore. J. R. LOWELL. EBB-TIDE. THE tide has ebbed away; No more wild surgings 'gainst the adamant rocks, No swayings of the sea-weed false that mocks The hues of gardens gay; No laugh of little wavelets at their play; No lucid pools reflecting Heaven's brow — Both storm and calm alike are ended now. The bare grey rocks sit lone; The shifting sand lies so smooth and dry Only some weedy fragment blackening thrown Afar the mountains rise, And the broad estuary widens out, All sunshine; wheeling round and round about, A bird? Nay, seems it rather in these eyes Beck'ning-Come thou where all we glad souls be.' O life! O silent shore, Where we sit patient! O great sea beyond, Would we were disembodied souls to soar, And like white sea-birds wing the Infinite Deep! ANONYMOUS. A fisher sat thereby ; Cool to his very heart he watched His line with dreamy eye: And while his dreamy watch he keeps The parted waves unclose, And forth from out the ocean deeps A water maiden rose. She sang to him, she spake to him,- Up to the deadly glow? Ah! couldst thou know, how well below Our peaceful lives are passed, Thou'dst leave thine earth and plunge beneath, And breathe free health at last. 'Bathes not the golden sun his face The moon too in the sea; And rise they not from their resting-place |