« AnteriorContinuar »
THE DEAD MARINE R.
BY G. D. PRENTICE.
Sleep on-sleep on-above thy corse
The winds their Sabbath keep, — The wave is round thee- and thy breast
Heaves with the heaving deep; O'er thee, mild eve her beauty flings, And there the white gull lifts her wings; And the blue halcyon loves to lave Her plumage in the holy wave.
Sleep on— no willow o'er thee bends
With melancholy air,
Its soul of love lays bare ;
THE DEAD MARINER.
Sleep on-sleep on-the glittering depths
Of ocean's coral caves;
The music of its waves ;-
Sleep on-sleep on—the fearful wrath
Of mingling cloud and deep,
Above thy place of sleep.
Sleep on-thy corse is far away,
But love bewails thee yet,-
And lovely eyes are wet :-
TO THE EVENING WIND.
BY W. C. BRYANT.
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day! Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their
spray And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone —a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth, into the gathering shade ; go forth, — God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
TO THE EVENING WIND.
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
Summoning, from the innumerable boughs,
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone;
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone,
Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown,
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
Go—but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more; Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.