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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
stolen as the symbol of its constancy, to the polar star.
Now, however, he can dispense even with sail, and
wind, and flowing wave. He constructs and propels
his vast engines of flame and vapor, and, through the
solitude of the sea, as over the solid land, goes thunder-
ing on his track. On the ocean, too, thrones have
been lost and won. On the fate of Actium was sus-
pended the empire of the world. In the gult of Salamis,
the pride of Persia found a grave; and the crescent set
forever in the waters of Navarino; while, at Trafalgar
and the Nile, nations held their breath
"As each gun

From its adamantine lips,

Spread a death-shade round the ships
Like the hurricane's eclipse
Of the sun."

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.

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Sun and moon and stars shine o'er thee,
See thy surface ebb and flow,
Yet attempt not to explore thee
In thy soundless depths below.
Whether morning's splendors steep thee
With the rainbow's glowing grace,
Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee,
'Tis but for a moment's space.
Earth-her valleys and her mountains,
Mortal man's behests obey;
The unfathomable fountains
Scoff his search and scorn his sway.
Such art thou, stupendous ɔcean!
But, if overwhelmed by thee,
Can we think, without emotion,
What must thy Creator be?

BERNARD BARTON

ON THE BEACH.

'HE sun is low, as ocean's flow
Heaves to the strand in breakers white;

And sea-birds seek their wild retreat
Where cliffs reflect the fading light.

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,
The holy time is quiet as a nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;

The gentleness of heaven is on the sea;
Listen! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.

Dear child dear girl! that walk'st with me here.
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
WILLIAM Wordsworth

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,
And she was overset.
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone,
His last sea fight is fought,
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock
His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.

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'N vain the cords and axes were prepared,
For now the audacious seas insult the yard;
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade
And o'er her burst in terrible cascade.
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies,
Her shattered top half buried in the skies,
Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground;
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound!
Her giant-bulk the dread concussion feels,
And quivering with the wound in torment reels.
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes,
The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows.
Again she plunges ! hark! a second shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock :
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,,
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair; while yet another stroke,
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak;
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn her frame divides,
And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides.
O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art
To wake to sympathy the feeling heart;

Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress
In all the pomp of exquisite distress,
Then too severely taught by cruel fate,
To share in all the perils I relate,
Then might I with unrivalled strains deplore
The impervious horrors of a leeward shore !

As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast hung,
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung;
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast,
And there by oozy tangles grappled fast.
Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' rage,
Unequal combat with their fate to wage;
Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below.
Some, from the main-yard arm impetuous thrown
On marble ridges, die without a groan.
Three with Palemon on their skill depend,

NE night came on a hurricane,

The sea was mountains rolling,
When Barney Buntline turned his quid,
And said to Billy Bowling:

"A strong nor'wester's blowing, Bill;
Hark! don't ye hear it roar now?
Lord help 'em, how I pities them
Unhappy folks on shore now!

"Foolhardy chaps who live in towns, What danger they are all in,

And now lie quaking in their beds,
For fear the roof shall fall in :
Poor creatures! how they envies us,
And wishes, I've a notion,
For our good luck, in such a storm,

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.
We know what risks all landsmen run,
From noblemen to tailors;

Then, Bill, let us thank Providence
That you and I are sailors."

WILLIAM PITT.

THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

WILL go back to the great sweet mother-
Mother and lover of men, the sea.

I will go down to her, I and none other,
Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me;
Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast.
O fair white mother, in days long past
Born without sister, born without brother,
Set free my soul as thy soul is free.

O fair green-girdled mother of mine,

Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain,
Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine,

Thy large embraces are keen like pain.
Save me and hide me with all thy waves,
Find me one grave of thy thousand graves,
Those pure cold populous graves of thine-
Wrought without hand in a world without stain.

I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships,
Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ;
My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips,

I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside;
Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were-
Filled full with life to the eyes and hair,

As a rose is full filled to the rose-leaf tips
With splendid summer and perfume and pride.

This woven raiment of nights and days,

Were it once cast off and unwouud from me,
Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways,
Alive and aware of thy waves and thee;
Clear of the whole world, hidden at home,

Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam,
A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays,
A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE LONG VOYAGE.

'HE mackerel boats sailed slowly out
Into the darkening sea,

But the gray gull's flight was landward,
The kestrel skimmed the lea.

Strange whisperings were in the air;
And though no leaflet stirred,
The echo of the distant storm,
The moaning sough, was heard.

It came the swift-winged hurricane-
Bursting upon the shore,

Till the wild bird's nest and the fisher's cot
All trembled at its roar.

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,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window; sweet is the night air!
Only from the long line of spray

Where the ebb meets the moon-blanched san
Listen! you hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves suck back, and fling,
At their return upon the high strand.
Begin and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

MATTHEW ARNOLD

ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.

THOU vast ocean! ever sounding sea!
Thou symbol of a drear immensity?
Thou thing that windest round the solid
world

Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone!
Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep,
Thou speakest in the East and in the West
At once, and on thy heavily laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife.
The earth has naught of this: no chance or change
Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare
Give answer to the tempest wakened air;
But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range
At will, and wound its bosom as they go;
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow:
But in their stated rounds the seasons come,
And pass like visions to their wonted home;
And come again, and vanish; the young Spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming,
And Winter always winds his sullen horn,
When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn,

And watched and prayed, though the setting sun Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies

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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;
The night may turn to day;

Slow years roll by, and the solemn stars

Glide on-but all in vain!

Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies.
O, wonderful thou art, great element,

And fearful in thy spleeny humors bent,nis

And lovely in repose! thy summer form

Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,

I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,

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
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell
To which in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely, and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy; for from within were heard
Murmurings whereby the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself

Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power;
And central peace, subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation.

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
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow:
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and the waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air:
There with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter:
There with a light and easy motion

The fan coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea;
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the waves his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
When the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on the shore,
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.
JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.

THE INCHCAFE ROCK.

O stir in the air, no stir in the sea,

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The ship was as still as she could be,
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape bell.

The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round
And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck
And fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok."

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;

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
They cannot see the sun on high ;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand
So dark it is they see no land.

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