HAMPTON BEACH. BY GEORGE LUNT. "O mare, o litus, verum secretumque Museum, quam multa dictatis,quam multa invenitis!"-PLINY. AGAIN upon the sounding shore, 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, And dashing foam go up to vex the sea-beat shore. 316 HAMPTON BEACH. I see thy heaving waters roll, And stranded navies are thy prey, Strown on thy rock-bound coast, torn by the whirling spray. As summer twilight soft and calm, 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. 317 The broken mast and shattered sail Tell of thy cruel strength the lamentable tale Ay, 'tis indeed a glorious sight 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, And on the wild gray mountain-stone But where thy many voices sing Their endless song, the deep, deep tone 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, Loving, and loved, a happy wife, I know not-but whate'er thou art, To call Fate's joys, or blunt his dart, For thou art Woman-with that word In the green bower of home. What is man's love? His vows are broke 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, 319 |