'Whereshall we sail to-day?'Thus said, methought,A Voice—that could be only heard in dreams:And on we glided without mast or oars,A fair strange boat upon a wondrous sea.Sudden the land curved inward, to a bayBroad, calm; with gorgeous sea-flowers waving slowBeneath the surface—like rich thoughts that moveIn the mysterious deep of human hearts.But towards the rounded shore's embracing arm,The little waves leaped, singing, to their death;And shadowy trees drooped pensive over them,Like long-fringed lashes over sparkling eyes.So still, so fair, so rosy in the dawnLay that bright bay: yet something seemed to breathe,Or in the air, or trees, or lisping waves,Or from the Voice, ay near as one's own soul—'There was a wreck last night!'A wreck?—and whereThe ship, the crew?—All gone. The monumentOn which is writ no name, no chronicle,Laid itself o'er them with smooth crystal smile.'Yet was the wreck last night!'And, gazing down,Deep down beneath the surface, we were 'wareOf cold dead faces, with their stony eyesUplooking to the dawn they could not see.One stirred with stirring sea-weeds: one lay prone,The tinted fishes glancing o'er his breast:One, caught by floating hair, rocked daintilyOn the reed-cradle woven by kind Death.'The wreck has been,' then said the deep low Voice,(Than which not Gabriel's did diviner sound,Or sweeter—when the stern, meek angel spake:'See that thou worship not! Not me, but God!')'The wreck has been, yet all things are at peace,Earth, sea, and sky. The dead, that while we sleptStruggled for life, now sleep and fear no storm:O'er them let us not weep when God's heaven smiles.'So we sailed on above the diamond sands,Bright sea-flowers, and dead faces white and calm,Till the waves rocked us in the open sea,And the great sun arose upon the world.
'Whereshall we sail to-day?'Thus said, methought,A Voice—that could be only heard in dreams:And on we glided without mast or oars,A fair strange boat upon a wondrous sea.
Sudden the land curved inward, to a bayBroad, calm; with gorgeous sea-flowers waving slowBeneath the surface—like rich thoughts that moveIn the mysterious deep of human hearts.
But towards the rounded shore's embracing arm,The little waves leaped, singing, to their death;And shadowy trees drooped pensive over them,Like long-fringed lashes over sparkling eyes.
So still, so fair, so rosy in the dawnLay that bright bay: yet something seemed to breathe,Or in the air, or trees, or lisping waves,Or from the Voice, ay near as one's own soul—
'There was a wreck last night!'A wreck?—and whereThe ship, the crew?—All gone. The monumentOn which is writ no name, no chronicle,Laid itself o'er them with smooth crystal smile.
'Yet was the wreck last night!'And, gazing down,Deep down beneath the surface, we were 'wareOf cold dead faces, with their stony eyesUplooking to the dawn they could not see.
One stirred with stirring sea-weeds: one lay prone,The tinted fishes glancing o'er his breast:One, caught by floating hair, rocked daintilyOn the reed-cradle woven by kind Death.
'The wreck has been,' then said the deep low Voice,(Than which not Gabriel's did diviner sound,Or sweeter—when the stern, meek angel spake:'See that thou worship not! Not me, but God!')
'The wreck has been, yet all things are at peace,Earth, sea, and sky. The dead, that while we sleptStruggled for life, now sleep and fear no storm:O'er them let us not weep when God's heaven smiles.'
So we sailed on above the diamond sands,Bright sea-flowers, and dead faces white and calm,Till the waves rocked us in the open sea,And the great sun arose upon the world.
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Every day, morning and evening, says our widow, 'I see a Moor pass along the street; all his features beam with kindness and serenity. A sword, or rather a long yataghan, is slung in his girdle; all the Arabs salute him with respect, and press forward to kiss his hand. This man is achaouchor executioner—an office considered so honourable in this country, that the person invested with it is regarded as a special favourite of Heaven, intrusted with the care of facilitating the path of the true believer from this lower world to the seventh heaven of Mohammed.—A Residence in Algeria, by Madame Prus.
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VOLUME VIII.
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