THE MOBILE SEA.

159

The curtains drawn and the pillows toss'd

Like a tide of foam ; and one will say
At night, O Heaven, that it were day!
And one by night through the misty tears

Will say, -0 Heaven, the days are years,
And I would to Heaven that the waves were cross'd.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

I STAND BESIDE THE MOBILE SEA.

I STAND beside the mobile sea;

And sails are spread, and sails are furld
From farthest corners of the world,
And fold like white wings wearily.
Steamships go up, and some go down
In haste, like traders in a town,
And seem to see and beckon all.
Afar at sea some white shapes flee,
With arms stretch'd like a ghost's to me,
And cloud-like sails far blown and curl'd
Then glide down to the under-world.
As if blown bare in winter blasts
Of leaf and limb, tall naked masts
Are rising from the restless sea,
So still and desolate and tall,
I seem to see them gleam and shine
With clinging drops of dripping brine.
Broad still brown wings flit here and there,
Thin sea-blue wings wheel everywhere,
And white wings whistle through the air :
I hear a thousand sea-gulls call.

Behold the ocean on the beach
Kneel lowly down as if in prayer.
I hear a moan as of despair,
While far at sea do toss and reach
Some things so like white pleading hands.
The ocean's thin and hoary hair
Is trail'd along the silver'd sands
At every sigh and sounding moan.
'Tis not a place for mirthfulness,
But meditation deep, and prayer,
And kneelings on the salted sod,
Where man must own his littleness
And know the mightiness of God.

JOAQUIN Miller.

SURF.

SPL
PLENDORS of morning the billow-crests brighten,

Lighting and luring them on to the land, -
Far away waves where the wan vessels whiten,

Blue rollers breaking in surf where we stand. Curved like the necks of a legion of horses,

Each with his froth-gilded mane flowing free, Hither they speed in perpetual courses,

Bearing thy riches, O beautiful sea !

Strong with the striving of yesterday's surges,

Lashed by the wanton winds leagues from the shore, Each, driven fast by its follower, urges

Fearlessly those that are fleeting before ;

A THANKSGIVING.

161

How they leap over the ridges we walk on,

Flinging us gifts from the depths of the sea, Silvery fish for the foam-haunting falcon,

Palm-weed and pearls for my darling and me ! Light falls her foot where the rift follows after,

Finer her hair than your feathery spray, Sweeter her voice than your infinite laughter, –

Hist! ye wild couriers, list to my lay ! Deep in the chambers of grottos auroral

Morn laves her jewels and bends her red knee: Thence to my dear one your amber and coral

Bring for her dowry, O beautiful sea !

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

A THANKSGIVING.

HIGH
IGH on the ledge the wind blows the bay-berry

bright, Turning the leaves till they shudder and shine in the

light: Yellow St. John's-wort and yarrow are nodding their

heads. Iris and wild-rose are glowing in purples and reds. Swift flies the schooner careering beyond o'er the Quail and sand-piper, and swallow and sparrow, are

here; Sweet sound their manifold notes, high and low, far

and near ;

Chorus of musical waters, the rush of the breeze, Steady and strong from the South, — what glad voices

are these!

O cup of the wild-rose, curved close to hold odorous

dew, What thought do you hide in your heart? I would

that I knew! O beautiful Iris, unfurling your purple and gold, What victory fling you abroad in the flags you unfold !

Sweet may your thought be, red rose ; but still sweeter

is mine, Close in my heart hidden, clear as your dewdrop

divine. Flutter your gonfalons, Iris, – the pæan I sing Is for victory better than joy or than beauty can bring.

Into thy calm eyes, O Nature, I look and rejoice;
Prayerful, I add my one note to the Infinite voice :
As shining and singing and sparkling glides on the

glad day, And eastward the swift-rolling planet wheels into the

DOWN ON THE SHORE.

163

DOWN ON THE SHORE.

DOWN
OWN on the shore, on the sunny shore !

Where the salt smell cheers the land;
Where the tide moves bright under boundless light,

And the surge on the glittering strand; Where the children wade in the shallow pools,

Or run from the froth in play;
Where the swift little boats with milk-white wings

Are crossing the sapphire bay,
And the ship in full sail, with a fortunate gale,

Holds proudly on her way.
Where the nets are spread on the grass to dry,
And asleep, hard by, the fishermen lie,
Under the tent of the warm blue sky,
With the hushing wave on its golden floor

To sing their lullaby.

Down on the shore, on the stormy shore !

Beset by a growling sea,
Whose mad waves leap on the rocky steep,

Like wolves up a traveller's tree.
Where the foam flies wide, and an angry blast

Blows the curlew off with a screech ;
Where the brown sea-wrack, torn up by the roots,

Is flung out of fishes' reach ;
Where the tall ship rolls on the hidden shoals,

And scatters her planks on the beach.