Jessie is both young and fair,Dewy eyes and sunny hair;Sunny hair and dewy eyesAre not where her beauty lies.Jessie is both kind and true,Heart of gold and will of yew;Will of yew and heart of gold—Still her charms are scarcely told.If she yet remain unsung,Pretty, constant, docile, young.What remains not here compiled?Jessie is a little child!Bret Harte.
Jessie is both young and fair,Dewy eyes and sunny hair;Sunny hair and dewy eyesAre not where her beauty lies.
Jessie is both kind and true,Heart of gold and will of yew;Will of yew and heart of gold—Still her charms are scarcely told.
If she yet remain unsung,Pretty, constant, docile, young.What remains not here compiled?Jessie is a little child!
Bret Harte.
She gamboll'd on the greensA baby-germ, to whenThe maiden blossoms of her teensCould number five from ten.I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain—And hear me with thine ears—That tho' I circle in the grainFive hundred rings of years,Yet, since I first could cast a shade,Did never creature passSo slightly, musically made,So light upon the grass.* * * *Then ran she, gamesome as the colt,And livelier than a larkShe sent her voice thro' all the holtBefore her, and the park.A light wind chased her on the wing,And in the chase grew wild,As close as might be would he clingAbout the darling child.But light as any wind that blows,So fleetly did she stir,The flower she touch'd on, dipt and rose,And turned to look at her.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.From "The Talking Oak."
She gamboll'd on the greensA baby-germ, to whenThe maiden blossoms of her teensCould number five from ten.
I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain—And hear me with thine ears—That tho' I circle in the grainFive hundred rings of years,
Yet, since I first could cast a shade,Did never creature passSo slightly, musically made,So light upon the grass.
* * * *
Then ran she, gamesome as the colt,And livelier than a larkShe sent her voice thro' all the holtBefore her, and the park.
A light wind chased her on the wing,And in the chase grew wild,As close as might be would he clingAbout the darling child.
But light as any wind that blows,So fleetly did she stir,The flower she touch'd on, dipt and rose,And turned to look at her.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
From "The Talking Oak."
O tell me, little children, have you seen her—The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina?O, her eyes are blue as cornflow'rs mid the corn,And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn!Nikolina! swift she turns if any call her,As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller,Breaking off their scarlet cups for you,With spikes of slender larkspur, burning blue.In her little garden many a flower is growing—Red, gold, and purple in the soft wind blowingBut the child that stands amid the blossoms gayIs sweeter, quainter, brighter e'en than they.Celia Thaxter.
O tell me, little children, have you seen her—The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina?O, her eyes are blue as cornflow'rs mid the corn,And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn!
Nikolina! swift she turns if any call her,As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller,Breaking off their scarlet cups for you,With spikes of slender larkspur, burning blue.
In her little garden many a flower is growing—Red, gold, and purple in the soft wind blowingBut the child that stands amid the blossoms gayIs sweeter, quainter, brighter e'en than they.
Celia Thaxter.
Behold her, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.No nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travelers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands;A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard,In springtime from the cuckoo bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.Will no one tell me what she sings?—Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss or pain,That has been, and may be again?Whate'er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o'er the sickle bending;—I listened, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I bore,Long after it was heard no more.William Wordsworth.
Behold her, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travelers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands;A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard,In springtime from the cuckoo bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss or pain,That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o'er the sickle bending;—I listened, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I bore,Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth.
We, Hermia,...Have with our needles created both one flower,Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,Both warbling of one song, both in one key;As if our hands, our sides, voices, and mindsHad been incorporate. So we grew together,Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,But yet a union in partition,Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart,Two of the first, like coats in heraldryDue but to one, and crownéd with one crest.William Shakespeare.From "A Midsummer Night's Dream."
We, Hermia,...Have with our needles created both one flower,Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,Both warbling of one song, both in one key;As if our hands, our sides, voices, and mindsHad been incorporate. So we grew together,Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,But yet a union in partition,Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart,Two of the first, like coats in heraldryDue but to one, and crownéd with one crest.
William Shakespeare.
From "A Midsummer Night's Dream."
In petticoat of green,Her hair about her eyne,Phyllis beneath an oakSat milking her fair flock;'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight,Her hand seemed milk, in milk it was so white.William Drummond.
In petticoat of green,Her hair about her eyne,Phyllis beneath an oakSat milking her fair flock;'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight,Her hand seemed milk, in milk it was so white.
William Drummond.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,Before rude hands have touched it?Have you marked but the fall of the snow,Before the soil hath smutched it?Have you felt the wool of the beaver?Or swan's down ever?Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier?Or the nard i' the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet, is she!Ben Jonson.From "The Triumph of Charis."
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,Before rude hands have touched it?Have you marked but the fall of the snow,Before the soil hath smutched it?Have you felt the wool of the beaver?Or swan's down ever?Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier?Or the nard i' the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet, is she!
Ben Jonson.
From "The Triumph of Charis."
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,I dearly like the west,For there the bonnie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best;There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And monie a hill between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair;I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air:There's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green;There's not a bonnie bird that sings,But minds me o' my Jean.Robert Burns.
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,I dearly like the west,For there the bonnie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best;There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And monie a hill between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair;I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air:There's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green;There's not a bonnie bird that sings,But minds me o' my Jean.
Robert Burns.
Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays,An' listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw;But to me it's delightless—my Nannie's awa'.The snaw-drap an' primrose our woodlands adorn,An' violets bathe in the weet o' the morn;They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,They mind me o' Nannie—an' Nannie's awa'.Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn,The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn,An' thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa',Give over for pity—my Nannie's awa'.Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow an' gray,An' soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay;The dark, dreary winter, an' wild-driving snaw,Alane can delight me—now Nannie's awa'.Robert Burns.
Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays,An' listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw;But to me it's delightless—my Nannie's awa'.
The snaw-drap an' primrose our woodlands adorn,An' violets bathe in the weet o' the morn;They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,They mind me o' Nannie—an' Nannie's awa'.
Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn,The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn,An' thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa',Give over for pity—my Nannie's awa'.
Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow an' gray,An' soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay;The dark, dreary winter, an' wild-driving snaw,Alane can delight me—now Nannie's awa'.
Robert Burns.
"The sea has the sun for a harper." She has also among her myriad worshippers Swinburne, the poet-harpist, who sweeps all the strings of his noble instrument in her praise.
There can be no worthier introduction to a group of sea-poems than lines "all gold seven times refined," selected almost at random from a great poet whom you will be glad to read later on.
"Green earth has her sons and her daughters,And these have their guerdons; but weAre the wind's and the sun's and the water's,Elect of the sea.""She is pure as the wind and the sun,And her sweetness endureth forever.""For the wind, with his wings half open, at pausein the sky, neither fettered nor free,Leans waveward and flutters the ripple to laughter!""But for hours upon hoursAs a thrall she remainsSpell-bound as with flowersAnd content in their chains,And her loud steeds fret not, and lift not a lockof their deep white manes.""And all the rippling green grew royal goldBetween him and the far sun's rising rim.""Where the horn of the headland is sharperAnd her green floor glitters with fire,The sea has the sun for a harper,The sun has the sea for a lyre.""The waves are a pavement of amber,By the feet of the sea-winds trod,To receive in a god's presence-chamberOur father, the God."
"Green earth has her sons and her daughters,And these have their guerdons; but weAre the wind's and the sun's and the water's,Elect of the sea."
"She is pure as the wind and the sun,And her sweetness endureth forever."
"For the wind, with his wings half open, at pausein the sky, neither fettered nor free,Leans waveward and flutters the ripple to laughter!"
"But for hours upon hoursAs a thrall she remainsSpell-bound as with flowersAnd content in their chains,And her loud steeds fret not, and lift not a lockof their deep white manes."
"And all the rippling green grew royal goldBetween him and the far sun's rising rim."
"Where the horn of the headland is sharperAnd her green floor glitters with fire,The sea has the sun for a harper,The sun has the sea for a lyre."
"The waves are a pavement of amber,By the feet of the sea-winds trod,To receive in a god's presence-chamberOur father, the God."
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;Man marks the earth with ruin—his controlStops with the shore;—upon the watery plainThe wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remainA shadow of man's ravage, save his own,When for a moment, like a drop of rain,He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd and unknown.His steps are not upon thy paths—thy fieldsAre not a spoil for him—thou dost ariseAnd shake him from thee; the vile strength he wieldsFor earth's destruction thou dost all despise,Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray,And howling, to his Gods, where haply liesHis petty hope in some near port or bay,And dashest him again to earth—there let him lay.The armaments which thunderstrike the wallsOf rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,And monarchs tremble in their capitals,The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs makeTheir clay creator the vain title takeOf lord of thee, and arbiter of war;These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,They melt into thy yeast of waves, which marAlike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?Thy waters wasted them while they were free,And many a tyrant since: their shores obeyThe stranger, slave or savage; their decayHas dried up realms to deserts—not so thou.Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play—Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow—Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's formGlasses itself in tempests: in all time,Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm,Icing the pole, or in the torrid climeDark-heaving;—boundless, endless, and sublime—The image of Eternity—the throneOf the Invisible; even from out thy slimeThe monsters of the deep are made; each zoneObeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.George Gordon, Lord Byron.From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;Man marks the earth with ruin—his controlStops with the shore;—upon the watery plainThe wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remainA shadow of man's ravage, save his own,When for a moment, like a drop of rain,He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths—thy fieldsAre not a spoil for him—thou dost ariseAnd shake him from thee; the vile strength he wieldsFor earth's destruction thou dost all despise,Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray,And howling, to his Gods, where haply liesHis petty hope in some near port or bay,And dashest him again to earth—there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the wallsOf rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,And monarchs tremble in their capitals,The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs makeTheir clay creator the vain title takeOf lord of thee, and arbiter of war;These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,They melt into thy yeast of waves, which marAlike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?Thy waters wasted them while they were free,And many a tyrant since: their shores obeyThe stranger, slave or savage; their decayHas dried up realms to deserts—not so thou.Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play—Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow—Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's formGlasses itself in tempests: in all time,Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm,Icing the pole, or in the torrid climeDark-heaving;—boundless, endless, and sublime—The image of Eternity—the throneOf the Invisible; even from out thy slimeThe monsters of the deep are made; each zoneObeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
George Gordon, Lord Byron.
From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
A life on the ocean wave,A home on the rolling deep,Where the scattered waters rave,And the winds their revels keep!Like an eagle caged I pineOn this dull unchanging shore:Oh! give me the flashing brine,The spray and the tempest's roar!Once more on the deck I standOf my own swift-gliding craft:Set sail! farewell to the land!The gale follows fair abaft.We shoot through the sparkling foamLike an ocean-bird set free;—Like the ocean-bird, our homeWe'll find far out on the sea.The land is no longer in view,The clouds have begun to frown;But with a stout vessel and crew,We'll say let the storm come down!And the song of our hearts shall be,While the winds and the waters rave,A home on the rolling sea!A life on the ocean wave.Epes Sargent.
A life on the ocean wave,A home on the rolling deep,Where the scattered waters rave,And the winds their revels keep!Like an eagle caged I pineOn this dull unchanging shore:Oh! give me the flashing brine,The spray and the tempest's roar!
Once more on the deck I standOf my own swift-gliding craft:Set sail! farewell to the land!The gale follows fair abaft.We shoot through the sparkling foamLike an ocean-bird set free;—Like the ocean-bird, our homeWe'll find far out on the sea.
The land is no longer in view,The clouds have begun to frown;But with a stout vessel and crew,We'll say let the storm come down!And the song of our hearts shall be,While the winds and the waters rave,A home on the rolling sea!A life on the ocean wave.
Epes Sargent.
[14]Harper's "Cyclopædia of British and American Poetry."
[14]Harper's "Cyclopædia of British and American Poetry."
The sea! the sea! the open sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth's wide regions round;It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;Or like a cradled creature lies.I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!I am where I would ever be;With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence wheresoe'er I go;If a storm should come and awake the deep,What matter? I shall ride and sleep.I love, oh, how I love to rideOn the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the sou'west blasts do blow.I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great sea more and more,And backward flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;And a mother she was, and is, to me;For I was born on the open sea!The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the ocean-child!I've lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers, a sailor's life,With wealth to spend, and power to range,But never have sought nor sighed for change;And Death, whenever he comes to me,Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea!Barry Cornwall.(Bryan Waller Procter.)
The sea! the sea! the open sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth's wide regions round;It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;Or like a cradled creature lies.
I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!I am where I would ever be;With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence wheresoe'er I go;If a storm should come and awake the deep,What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love, oh, how I love to rideOn the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the sou'west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great sea more and more,And backward flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;And a mother she was, and is, to me;For I was born on the open sea!
The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the ocean-child!
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers, a sailor's life,With wealth to spend, and power to range,But never have sought nor sighed for change;And Death, whenever he comes to me,Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea!
Barry Cornwall.
(Bryan Waller Procter.)
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sailAnd bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.O for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my lads,The good ship tight and free—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;But hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.Allan Cunningham.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sailAnd bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the snoring breezeAnd white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my lads,The good ship tight and free—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;But hark the music, mariners!The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.
Allan Cunningham.
Far from the loud sea-beaches,Where he goes fishing and crying,Here in the inland garden,Why is the sea-gull flying?Here are no fish to dive for:Here is the corn and lea;Here are the green trees rustling.Hie away home to sea!Fresh is the river water,And quiet among the rushes;This is no home for the sea-gull,But for the rooks and thrushes.Pity the bird that has wandered!Pity the sailor ashore!Hurry him home to the ocean,Let him come here no more!High on the sea-cliff ledgesThe white gulls are trooping and crying;Here among rooks and roses,Why is the sea-gull flying?Robert Louis Stevenson.
Far from the loud sea-beaches,Where he goes fishing and crying,Here in the inland garden,Why is the sea-gull flying?
Here are no fish to dive for:Here is the corn and lea;Here are the green trees rustling.Hie away home to sea!
Fresh is the river water,And quiet among the rushes;This is no home for the sea-gull,But for the rooks and thrushes.
Pity the bird that has wandered!Pity the sailor ashore!Hurry him home to the ocean,Let him come here no more!
High on the sea-cliff ledgesThe white gulls are trooping and crying;Here among rooks and roses,Why is the sea-gull flying?
Robert Louis Stevenson.
[15]From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
[15]From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
My soul to-dayIs far away,Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;My wingèd boat,A bird afloat,Swings round the purple peaks remote:—Round purple peaksIt sails, and seeksBlue inlets and their crystal creeks,Where high rocks throw,Through deeps below,A duplicated golden glow.Far, vague, and dim,The mountains swim;While on Vesuvius' misty brim,With outstretched hands,The gray smoke standsO'erlooking the volcanic lands.Here Ischia smilesO'er liquid miles;And yonder, bluest of the isles,Calm Capri waits,Her sapphire gatesBeguiling to her bright estates.I heed not, ifMy rippling skiffFloat swift or slow from cliff to cliff;With dreamful eyesMy spirit liesUnder the walls of Paradise.Under the wallsWhere swells and fallsThe Bay's deep breast at intervalsAt peace I lie,Blown softly by,A cloud upon this liquid sky.The day, so mild,Is Heaven's own child,With Earth and Ocean reconciled;The airs I feelAround me stealAre murmuring to the murmuring keel.Over the railMy hand I trailWithin the shadow of the sail,A joy intense,The cooling senseGlides down my drowsy indolence.With dreamful eyesMy spirit liesWhere Summer sings and never dies,—O'erveiled with vinesShe glows and shinesAmong her future oil and wines.Her children, hidThe cliffs amid,Are gambolling with the gambolling kid,Or down the walls,With tipsy calls,Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.The fisher's child,With tresses wild,Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,With glowing lipsSings as she skips,Or gazes at the far-off ships.Yon deep bark goesWhere traffic blows,From lands of sun to lands of snows;This happier one,—Its course is runFrom lands of snow to lands of sun.O happy ship,To rise and dip,With the blue crystal at your lip!O happy crew,My heart with youSails, and sails, and sings anew!No more, no moreThe worldly shoreUpbraids me with its loud uproar:With dreamful eyesMy spirit liesUnder the walls of Paradise!Thomas Buchanan Read.
My soul to-dayIs far away,Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;My wingèd boat,A bird afloat,Swings round the purple peaks remote:—
Round purple peaksIt sails, and seeksBlue inlets and their crystal creeks,Where high rocks throw,Through deeps below,A duplicated golden glow.
Far, vague, and dim,The mountains swim;While on Vesuvius' misty brim,With outstretched hands,The gray smoke standsO'erlooking the volcanic lands.
Here Ischia smilesO'er liquid miles;And yonder, bluest of the isles,Calm Capri waits,Her sapphire gatesBeguiling to her bright estates.
I heed not, ifMy rippling skiffFloat swift or slow from cliff to cliff;With dreamful eyesMy spirit liesUnder the walls of Paradise.
Under the wallsWhere swells and fallsThe Bay's deep breast at intervalsAt peace I lie,Blown softly by,A cloud upon this liquid sky.
The day, so mild,Is Heaven's own child,With Earth and Ocean reconciled;The airs I feelAround me stealAre murmuring to the murmuring keel.
Over the railMy hand I trailWithin the shadow of the sail,A joy intense,The cooling senseGlides down my drowsy indolence.
With dreamful eyesMy spirit liesWhere Summer sings and never dies,—O'erveiled with vinesShe glows and shinesAmong her future oil and wines.
Her children, hidThe cliffs amid,Are gambolling with the gambolling kid,Or down the walls,With tipsy calls,Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.
The fisher's child,With tresses wild,Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,With glowing lipsSings as she skips,Or gazes at the far-off ships.
Yon deep bark goesWhere traffic blows,From lands of sun to lands of snows;This happier one,—Its course is runFrom lands of snow to lands of sun.
O happy ship,To rise and dip,With the blue crystal at your lip!O happy crew,My heart with youSails, and sails, and sings anew!
No more, no moreThe worldly shoreUpbraids me with its loud uproar:With dreamful eyesMy spirit liesUnder the walls of Paradise!
Thomas Buchanan Read.
[16]By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co.
[16]By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co.
The weather-leech of the topsail shivers,The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken,The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers,And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken.Open one point on the weather-bow,Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head.There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow,And the pilot watches the heaving lead.I stand at the wheel, and with eager eyeTo sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,Till the muttered order of "Full and by!"Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!"The ship bends lower before the breeze,As her broadside fair to the blast she lays;And she swifter springs to the rising seas,As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"It is silence all, as each in his place,With the gathered coil in his hardened hands,By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,Waiting the watchword impatient stands.And the light on Fire Island Head draws near,As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shoutFrom his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear,With the welcome call of "Ready! About!"No time to spare! It is touch and go;And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!"As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw,While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown.High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,As we meet the shock of the plunging sea;And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay,As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!"With the swerving leap of a startled steedThe ship flies fast in the eye of the wind,The dangerous shoals on the lee recede,And the headland white we have left behind.The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse,And belly and tug at the groaning cleats;And spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps;And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!"'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew,Hisses the rain of the rushing squall:The sails are aback from clew to clew.And now is the moment for "Mainsail, haul!"And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy,By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung:She holds her way, and I look with joyFor the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung."Let go, and haul!" 'Tis the last command,And the head-sails fill to the blast once more:Astern and to leeward lies the land,With its breakers white on the shingly shore.What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?I steady the helm for the open sea;The first mate clamors, "Belay, there, all!"And the captain's breath once more comes free.And so off shore let the good ship fly;Little care I how the gusts may blow,In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry.Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.Walter Mitchell.
The weather-leech of the topsail shivers,The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken,The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers,And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken.
Open one point on the weather-bow,Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head.There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow,And the pilot watches the heaving lead.
I stand at the wheel, and with eager eyeTo sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,Till the muttered order of "Full and by!"Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!"
The ship bends lower before the breeze,As her broadside fair to the blast she lays;And she swifter springs to the rising seas,As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"
It is silence all, as each in his place,With the gathered coil in his hardened hands,By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,Waiting the watchword impatient stands.
And the light on Fire Island Head draws near,As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shoutFrom his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear,With the welcome call of "Ready! About!"
No time to spare! It is touch and go;And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!"As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw,While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown.
High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,As we meet the shock of the plunging sea;And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay,As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!"
With the swerving leap of a startled steedThe ship flies fast in the eye of the wind,The dangerous shoals on the lee recede,And the headland white we have left behind.
The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse,And belly and tug at the groaning cleats;And spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps;And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!"
'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew,Hisses the rain of the rushing squall:The sails are aback from clew to clew.And now is the moment for "Mainsail, haul!"
And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy,By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung:She holds her way, and I look with joyFor the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung.
"Let go, and haul!" 'Tis the last command,And the head-sails fill to the blast once more:Astern and to leeward lies the land,With its breakers white on the shingly shore.
What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?I steady the helm for the open sea;The first mate clamors, "Belay, there, all!"And the captain's breath once more comes free.
And so off shore let the good ship fly;Little care I how the gusts may blow,In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry.Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.
Walter Mitchell.
[17]By courtesy of The Churchman.
[17]By courtesy of The Churchman.
Heave at the windlass!—Heave O, cheerly, men!Heave all at once, with a will!The tide quickly making,Our cordage a-creaking,The water has put on a frill,Heave O!Fare you well, sweethearts!—Heave O, cheerly, men!Fare you well, frolic and sport!The good ship all ready,Each dog-vane is steady,The wind blowing dead out of port,Heave O!Once in blue water—Heave O, cheerly, men!Blow it from north or from south;She'll stand to it tightly,And curtsey politely,And carry a bone in her mouth,Heave O!Short cruise or long cruise—Heave O, cheerly, men!Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one.No latitude dreads heOf White, Black, or Red Sea,Great icebergs, or tropical sun,Heave O!One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men!Heave, and good-bye to the shore!Our money, how went it?We shared it and spent it;Next year we'll come back with some more,Heave O!William Allingham.
Heave at the windlass!—Heave O, cheerly, men!Heave all at once, with a will!The tide quickly making,Our cordage a-creaking,The water has put on a frill,Heave O!
Fare you well, sweethearts!—Heave O, cheerly, men!Fare you well, frolic and sport!The good ship all ready,Each dog-vane is steady,The wind blowing dead out of port,Heave O!
Once in blue water—Heave O, cheerly, men!Blow it from north or from south;She'll stand to it tightly,And curtsey politely,And carry a bone in her mouth,Heave O!
Short cruise or long cruise—Heave O, cheerly, men!Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one.No latitude dreads heOf White, Black, or Red Sea,Great icebergs, or tropical sun,Heave O!
One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men!Heave, and good-bye to the shore!Our money, how went it?We shared it and spent it;Next year we'll come back with some more,Heave O!
William Allingham.
Deep in the wave is a coral grove,Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove;Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blueThat 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-shell spangle the flinty snow;From coral rocks the sea-plants liftTheir boughs where the tides and billows flow.The water is calm and still below,For the winds and waves are absent there;And the sands are bright as the stars that glowIn 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 seenTo 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 oceanAre 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 stormsHas made the top of the wave his own.And when the ship from his fury flies,Where the myriad voices of Ocean roar;When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,And demons are waiting the wreck on shore,—Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,While the waters murmur tranquillyThrough the bending twigs of the coral grove.James Gates Percival.
Deep in the wave is a coral grove,Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove;Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blueThat 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-shell spangle the flinty snow;From coral rocks the sea-plants liftTheir boughs where the tides and billows flow.The water is calm and still below,For the winds and waves are absent there;And the sands are bright as the stars that glowIn 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 seenTo 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 oceanAre 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 stormsHas made the top of the wave his own.
And when the ship from his fury flies,Where the myriad voices of Ocean roar;When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,And demons are waiting the wreck on shore,—Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,While the waters murmur tranquillyThrough the bending twigs of the coral grove.
James Gates Percival.
See what a lovely shell,Small and pure as a pearl,Lying close to my foot,Frail, but a work divine,Made so fairily wellWith delicate spire and whorl,How exquisitely minute,A miracle of design!What is it? a learned manCould give it a clumsy name.Let him name it who can,The beauty would be the same.The tiny cell is forlorn,Void of the little living willThat made it stir on the shore.Did he stand at the diamond doorOf his house in a rainbow frill?Did he push, when he was uncurled,A golden foot or a fairy hornThrough his dim water-world?Slight, to be crush'd with a tapOf my finger-nail on the sand!Small, but a work divine!Frail, but of force to withstand,Year upon year, the shockOf cataract seas that snapThe three-decker's oaken spineAthwart the ledges of rock,Here on the Breton strand!Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
See what a lovely shell,Small and pure as a pearl,Lying close to my foot,Frail, but a work divine,Made so fairily wellWith delicate spire and whorl,How exquisitely minute,A miracle of design!What is it? a learned manCould give it a clumsy name.Let him name it who can,The beauty would be the same.
The tiny cell is forlorn,Void of the little living willThat made it stir on the shore.Did he stand at the diamond doorOf his house in a rainbow frill?Did he push, when he was uncurled,A golden foot or a fairy hornThrough his dim water-world?Slight, to be crush'd with a tapOf my finger-nail on the sand!Small, but a work divine!Frail, but of force to withstand,Year upon year, the shockOf cataract seas that snapThe three-decker's oaken spineAthwart the ledges of rock,Here on the Breton strand!
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Where the remote Bermudas ride,In the ocean's bosom unespied,From a small boat, that rowed along,The listening winds received this song:"What should we do but sing His praise,That led us through the watery maze,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,That lift the deep upon their backs;He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage.He gave us this eternal spring,Which here enamels every thing,And sends the fowls to us in care,On daily visits through the air;He hangs in shades the orange bright,Like golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows;He makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice;With cedars chosen by His hand,From Lebanon, He stores the land,And makes the hollow seas, that roar,Proclaim the ambergris on shore;He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.Oh! let our voice His praise exalt,Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, mayEcho beyond the Mexique Bay."Thus sung they, in the English boat,An holy and a cheerful note;And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.Andrew Marvell.
Where the remote Bermudas ride,In the ocean's bosom unespied,From a small boat, that rowed along,The listening winds received this song:
"What should we do but sing His praise,That led us through the watery maze,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,That lift the deep upon their backs;He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage.He gave us this eternal spring,Which here enamels every thing,And sends the fowls to us in care,On daily visits through the air;He hangs in shades the orange bright,Like golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows;He makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice;With cedars chosen by His hand,From Lebanon, He stores the land,And makes the hollow seas, that roar,Proclaim the ambergris on shore;He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.Oh! let our voice His praise exalt,Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, mayEcho beyond the Mexique Bay."
Thus sung they, in the English boat,An holy and a cheerful note;And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
Andrew Marvell.