HAMPTON BEACH.

BY GEORGE LUNT.

"O mare, o litus, verum secretumque Museum, quam multa dictatis,quam multa invenitis!"-PLINY.

AGAIN upon the sounding shore,
And oh how blest, again alone!
I could not bear to hear thy roar,
Thy deep, thy long majestic tone;
I could not bear to think that one
Could view with me thy swelling might,
And like a very stock or stone,

Turn coldly from the glorious sight,

And seek the idle world, to hate and fear and fight.

Thou art the same, eternal sea!

The earth hath many shapes and forms,
Of hill and valley, flower and tree;
Fields that the fervid noontide warms,
Or winter's rugged grasp deforms,
Or bright with autumn's golden store;
Thou coverest up thy face with storms,
Or smil'st serene,-but still thy roar

And dashing foam go up to vex the sea-beat shore.

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HAMPTON BEACH.

I see thy heaving waters roll,
I hear thy stern uplifted voice,
And trumpet-like upon my soul
Falls the deep music of that noise
Wherewith thou dost thyself rejoice;
The ships, that on thy bosom play,
Thou dashest them about like toys,

And stranded navies are thy prey,

Strown on thy rock-bound coast, torn by the whirling spray.

As summer twilight soft and calm,
Or when in stormy grandeur drest,
Peals up to heaven the eternal psalm,
That swells within thy boundless breast;
Thy curling waters have no rest,

But day and night, the ceaseless throng

Of waves that wait thy high behest,

Speak out in utterance deep and strong,

And loud the craggy beach howls back their savage song.

Terrible art thou in thy wrath,

Terrible in thine hour of glee,

When the strong winds, upon their path,

Bound o'er thy breast tumultuously,

And shout their chorus loud and free

To the sad sea-bird's mournful wail,

As heaving with the heaving sea,

HAMPTON BEACH.

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The broken mast and shattered sail

Tell of thy cruel strength the lamentable tale

Ay, 'tis indeed a glorious sight
To gaze upon thine ample face;
An awful joy, a deep delight!
I see thy laughing waves embrace
Each other in their frolic race;
I sit above the flashing spray,
That foams around this rocky base,

And, as the bright blue waters play,

Feel that my thoughts, my life, perchance are vain as they.

This is thy lesson, mighty sea!

Man calls the dimpled earth his own,
The flowery vale, the golden lea;

And on the wild gray mountain-stone
Claims nature's temple for his throne!

But where thy many voices sing

Their endless song, the deep, deep tone
Calls back his spirit's airy wing,

He shrinks into himself, where God alone is king!

WOMAN.

Written ir the Album of an unknown Lady.

BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

LADY, although we have not met,

And may not meet, beneath the sky; And whether thine are eyes of jet, Gray, or dark blue, or violet,

Or hazel-heaven knows, not I;

Whether around thy cheek of rose

A maiden's glowing locks are curled, And to some thousand kneeling beaux, Thy frown is cold as winter's snows,

Thy smile is worth a world;

WOMAN.

Or whether, past youth's joyous strife,
The calm of thought is on thy brow,
And thou art in thy noon of life,

Loving, and loved, a happy wife,
And happier mother now,

I know not-but whate'er thou art,
Whoe'er thou art, were mine the spell,

To call Fate's joys, or blunt his dart,
There should not be one hand or heart
But served or wished thee well.

For thou art Woman-with that word
Life's dearest hopes and memories come,
Truth, Beauty, Love-in her adored,
And earth's lost Paradise restored

In the green bower of home.

What is man's love? His vows are broke
Even while his parting kiss is warm,—
But woman's love all change will mock,
And, like the ivy round the oak,

Cling closest in the storm.

And well the Poet at her shrine

May bend and worship while he wooes;

To him she is a thing divine,

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