And does he sink to rise no more?
Has he no part to triumph o'er The pallid king? no spark, to save From darkness, ashes, and the grave? Thou holy place, the answer, wrought In thy firm structure, bars the thought! The spirit that established thee,
Nor death, nor darkness e'er shall see!
GOD of the mighty sea!-wherever now
The waves beneath thy brazen axle bow- Whether thy strong, proud steeds, wind-winged and wild, Trample upon the waves about them piled
By the strong storm-god, whirling thy swift car Each way among the winds, that near and far Yell out for pleasure, tossing crested foam Upon their floating manes, and on their sides Of glossy blackness-god of the torn sea And stormy waters-thou from whom ships flee,
Or sink into thy waves-god of the mighty storm, And of fierce winds that on the ocean swarm- God of the roar, the foam, the thunder crash Of angry waves-the low and sullen dash That waters make, while far beneath they flow Over some storm-wreck-we thy great power know, And call thee to our offering. Come and drive Thy chariots to our shore, and see us strive
To do thee honour. Come! with thy fierce crowd Of fleeting winds-O god, most strong and proud!
Perhaps thou lettest now thy horses roam Upon some quiet sea-no wind-tossed foam Is now upon their limbs, but leisurely They tread with silver feet the sleeping sea, Fanning the waves with slowly floating manes, But late storm-driven. Haply, silver strains, From trumpets spirit-blown, about thee ring; And green-robed sea-gods, unto thee their king, Sing, loud in praise. Apollo now doth gaze With friendly looks upon thee, and his rays Light up thy steeds' wild eyes-a pleasant warm Is felt upon the sea, where fierce cold storm Has just been rushing, and the noisy winds That Eolus within their prison binds, Flying with misty wings-perhaps below
Thou liest in green caves, where bright things glow
With many colours-many a monster keeps His watch a near thee, while old Triton sleeps As idly as his wont-and bright eyes peep Upon thee every way as thou dost sleep.
Perhaps thou liest in some Indian isle, Under a waving tree, where many a mile Stretches a sunny shore, with golden sands Heaped up in many shapes by Naiad's hands, And blushing as the waves come rippling on, Shaking the sunlight from them as they run And curl towards the land-like molten gold Thick set with jewelry most rare and old- And sea nymphs sit, and with small delicate shells Make thee sweet melody, as in deep dells We hear of summer nights by fairies made,
The while they dance within some quiet shade, And sound their silver flutes most low and sweet, In strange but beautiful tunes, that their light feet May dance upon the bright and misty dew In better time; all wanton airs that blew But lately over spice trees, now are here, And wave their wings, all odour-laden, near The bright and joyful sea. Oh! wilt thou rise And come from them to our new sacrifice!
RUSH on, bold stream! thou sendest up Brave notes to all the woods around, When morning beams are gathering fast, And hushed is every human sound;
I stand beneath the sombre hill,
The stars are dim o'er fount and rill, And still I hear thy waters play In welcome music, far away;
Dash on bold stream! I love the roar
Thou sendest up from rock and shore.
« AnteriorContinuar » |