The avalanche, shaken from its glittering steep, if it roll to the bosom of the earth, melts away, and is lost in vapor; but if it plunge into the embrace of the ocean, this mountain mass of ice and hail is borne about for ages in tumult and terror; it is the drifting monument of the ocean's dead. The tempest on land is impeded by forests, and broken by mountains; but on the plain of the deep it rushes unresisted; and when its strength is at last spent, ten thousand giant waves still roll its terrors onward. his needle now settles, with a fixedness which love has From its adamantine lips, Spread a death-shade round the ships The mountain lake and the meadow stream are inhabited only by the timid prey of the angler; but the ocean is the home of the leviathan-his ways are in the mighty deep. The glittering pebble and the rainbowtinted shell, which the returning tide has left on the shore, and the watery gem which the pearl-diver reaches at the peril of his life, are all that man can filch from the treasures of the sea. The groves of coral which wave over its pavements, and the halls of amber which glow in its depths, are beyond his approaches, save when he goes down there to seek, amid their si-social being. It invests him with feelings, associations, lent magnificence, his burial monument. The islands, the continents, the shores of civilized and savage realms, the capitals of kings, are worn by time, washed away by the wave, consumed by the flame, or sunk by the earthquake; but the ocean still remains, and still rolls on in the greatness of its unabated strength. Over the majesty of its form and the marvel of its might, time and disaster have no power. Such as creation's dawn beheld, it rolleth now. The vast clouds of vapor which roll up from its bosom, float away to encircle the globe; on distant mountains and deserts they pour out their watery treasures, which gather themselves again in streams and torrents, to return, with exhulting bounds, to their parent ocean. These are the messengers which proclaim in every land the exhaustless resources of the sea; but it is reserved for those who go down in ships, and who do business on the great waters, to see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep. Let one go up upon deck in the middle watch of a still night, with naught above him but the silent and solemn skies, and naught around and beneath him but an interminable waste of waters, and with the conviction that there is but a plank between him and eternity, a feeling of loneliness, solitude, and desertion, mingled with a sentiment of reverence for the vast, mysterious and unknown, will come upon him with a power, all unknown before, and he might stand for hours entranced in reverence and tears. Man, also, has made the ocean the theatre of his power. The ship in which he rides that element, is one of the highest triumphs of his skill. At first, this floating fabric was only a frail bark, slowly urged by the laboring oar. The sail, at length, arose and spread its wings to the wind. Still he had no power to direct his course when the lofty promontory sunk from sight, or the orbs above him were lost in clouds. But the secret of the magnet is, at length, revealed to him, and But, of all the wonders appertaining to the ocean, the greatest, perhaps, is its transforming power on man. It unravels and weaves anew the web of his moral and and habits, to which he has been an entire stranger. It breaks up the sealed fountain of his nature, and lifts his soul into features prominent as the cliffs which beetle over its surge. Once the adopted child of the ocean, he can never bring back his entire sympathies to land. He will still move in his dreams over that vast waste of waters, still bound in exultation and triumph through its foaming billows. All the other realities of life will be comparatively tame, and he will sigh for his tossing element, as the caged eagle for the roar and arrowy light of his mountain cataract. Sun and moon and stars shine o'er thee, BERNARD BARTON ON THE BEACH. 'HE sun is low, as ocean's flow And sea-birds seek their wild retreat The billow gleams in parting beams, And sighs upon the lonely shore, Whilst childhood stands upon the sands To greet the coming fisher's oar. Swift to my heart the waves impart Another dream of restless life, As some proud mind the fierce fates bind, Or doom to vain and endless strife. The waves are bright with peace to-night, And gladly bound 'neath summer's reign; I tread the verge of the shelving surge, To muse upon its wild refrain. O deep! thy winds, in murmuring chimes Sweet to my ear, my love implore, Thou dost enthral with siren call, And tempt me from thy peaceful shore! Yes, o'er thy graves, thy heaving waves, A stern delight with danger dwells; There's buoyant life amid thy strife, And rapture in thy lonely dells. E'en in thy wrath, thy surging path Hath peril's joy beyond thy shores! Amid the glare of thy despair, The soul above thy terror soars. But 'neath thy smile there's death and wile, The dark abyss, the waiting grave! Thy surges close o'er human woes On distant strand, in secret cave! Insatiate sea! oh, where is she Who trod in love thy gathered sands? Thou gavest her back as wreck and wrack, Pallid, to sad, imploring hands! And where is he, O sea! O sea! Who dared thy treacherous crests to ride? The quick command, the hastening hand, Were vain to rescue from thy tide Yet not in woe the plaint should go Against thee for the storm's behest; Thou'rt but the slave when wild winds rave And tyrant tempests lash thy breast. Doomed in thy keep the fates to meet, Thou dost obey a mightier wrath! Imperious sway commands thy way, And riots in its reckless path. Shall time's swift flight e'er stay thy might That dooms us to thy caves unblest! Or God's right arm thy tides disarm, And soothe to peace thy long unrest? No! still thy waves with moaning staves Shall heave thy gray sands to the shore, And thou shalt roll o'er depth and shoal Forever and forevermore! WILLIAM WHITEHEAD BY THE SEA T is a beauteous evening, calm and free, Breathless with adoration; the broad sun The gentleness of heaven is on the sea; Dear child dear girl! that walk'st with me here. Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED: 1782 POLL for the brave The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore. Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone, It was not in the battle; 'N vain the cords and axes were prepared, Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast hung, NE night came on a hurricane, The sea was mountains rolling, "A strong nor'wester's blowing, Bill; "Foolhardy chaps who live in towns, What danger they are all in, And now lie quaking in their beds, To be upon the ocean! "And as for them who're out all day On business from their houses, And late at night are coming home, To cheer their babes and spouses,— While you and I, Bill, on the deck Are comfortably lying, My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots Above their heads are flying! "And very often have we heard How men are killed and undone By overturns of carriages, By thieves and fires in London. Then, Bill, let us thank Providence WILLIAM PITT. THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. WILL go back to the great sweet mother- I will go down to her, I and none other, O fair green-girdled mother of mine, Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, Thy large embraces are keen like pain. I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside; As a rose is full filled to the rose-leaf tips This woven raiment of nights and days, Were it once cast off and unwouud from me, Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam, THE LONG VOYAGE. 'HE mackerel boats sailed slowly out But the gray gull's flight was landward, Strange whisperings were in the air; It came the swift-winged hurricane- Till the wild bird's nest and the fisher's cot And women wept, and watched and wept, And prayed for the night to wane; DOVER BEACH. HE sea is calm to-night, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the Straits;-on the French coast, the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Where the ebb meets the moon-blanched san Of pebbles which the waves suck back, and fling, MATTHEW ARNOLD ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. THOU vast ocean! ever sounding sea! Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled And watched and prayed, though the setting sun Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies Lit up the window-pane. "A sail!" That sail is not for you; It slowly fades away. The sun may set; the moon may rise; Slow years roll by, and the solemn stars Glide on-but all in vain! Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies. And fearful in thy spleeny humors bent,nis And lovely in repose! thy summer form Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves I love to wander on thy pebbled beach, They have sailed away on a long, long voyage; And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach,They'll never come back again. Eternity-eternity-and power. BRYAN W. PROCTER (Barry Cornwall). THE SEA-SHORE. HAVE seen a curious child, who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE CORAL GROVE. EEP in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold fish rove; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; For the winds and the waves are absent there, The fan coral sweeps through the clear deep sea; THE INCHCAFE ROCK. O stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was as still as she could be, Without either sign or sound of their shock The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell, The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen His eye was on the Inchcape float; The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the hock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away, He scoured the seas for many a day; And now grown rich with plundered store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore. So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky On the deck the Rover takes his stand |