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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 !

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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—0 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. 'Tis night in heaven—the rustling leaves

Are whispering of the coming storm, And thundering down the river's bed,

I see thy lengthened, darkling form; No voices from the vales are heard, The winds are low,-each little bird

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