ON THE SEA.

169

Yet, though lonesome and dark it be,
There are places where steadily
Faith's fires burn for us, true hearts mourn for us,

Dear arms yearn for us, out at sea !
Blinded and beaten by wind and foam,

Hurled and tossed at the sea's command,
Sweet the thought that in some dear home,

Steady and still on the solid land,
Where our hopes and our memories be
Safely harbored from storm and sea,
Love takes heed for us, love's lips plead for us,

Love's prayers speed for us, out at sea!
Night and darkness, and storm and clouds;

Creak of cordage and shudder of sails ;
Drifting drearily through the shrouds,

There is a murmur of mournful wails,
Dirges sung for the lost at sea,
Where the tempest is fierce and free:
Father, hear to us, bend Thine ear to us,
Be thou near to us, out at sea !

ELIZABETH Akers.

ON THE SEA.

THI
HE pathway of the sinking moon

Fades from the silent bay ;
The mountain-isles loom large and faint,

Folded in shadows gray,
And the lights of land are setting stars

That soon will pass away.

O boatman, cease thy mellow song !

O minstrel, drop thy lyre !
Let us hear the voice of the midnight sea,

Let us speak as the waves inspire,
While the plashy dip of the languid oar

Is a furrow of silver fire.

Day cannot make thee half so fair,

Nor the stars of eve so dear; The arms that clasp and the breast that keeps,

They tell me thou art near, And the perfect beauty of thy face

In thy murmured words I hear.

The lights of land have dropped below

The vast and glimmering sea ;
The world we leave is a tale that is told, -

A fable that cannot be.
There is no life in the sphery dark

But the love in thee and me!

BAYARD TAYLOR.

FROM "THE BATH.”

WHERE yonder dancing billows dip,

Far-off, to ocean's misty verge, Ploughs Morning, like a full-sailed ship,

The orient's cloudy surge.

SUNKEN TREASURES.

171

With spray of scarlet fire before

The ruffled gold that round her dies,
She sails above the sleeping shore,

Across the waking skies.

The dewy beach beneath her glows ;

A pencilled beam, the lighthouse burns :
Full-breathed, the fragrant sea-wind blows,

Life to the world returns !

BAYARD TAYLOR.

SUNKEN TREASURES.

WHEN

THEN the uneasy waves of life subside,

And the soothed ocean sleeps in glassy rest, I see submerged, beyond or storm or tide,

The treasures gathered in its greedy breast.

There still they shine through the translucent Past,

Far down on that forever quiet floor ; No fierce upheaval of the deep shall cast

Them back, no wave shall wash them to the shore.

I see them gleaming beautiful as when

Erewhile they floated, convoys of my fate; The barks of lovely women, noble men, Full sailed with hope, and stored with Love's own

freight.

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, 0 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.

! 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.