242

MORN AT SEA.

Most like an angel-friend,

With noiseless footsteps, which no impress leave,
She comes in gentleness to those who grieve,
Bidding the long night end.

How joyfully will hail,

With re-enliven'd hearts, her presence fair,
The hapless shipwreck'd, patient in despair,
Watching a far-off sail.

Vain all affection's arts

To cheer the sick man through the night have been:
She to his casement goes, and, looking in,
Death's shadow thence departs.

How many, far from home,

Wearied, like me, beneath unfriendly skies,
And mourning o'er affection's broken ties,
Have pray'd for her to come!

Lone voyager on time's sea!

When my dull night of being shall be past,
O, may I waken to a morn, at last,

Welcome as this to me!

TO A SEA-SHELL.

BY AMELIA B. WELBY.

SHELL of the bright sea-waves! What is it that we hear in thy sad moan? Is this unceasing music all thine own, Lute of the ocean-caves!

Or, does some spirit dwell

In the deep windings of thy chamber dim,
Breathing for ever, in its mournful hymn,
Of ocean's anthem swell?

Wert thou a murmurer long

In crystal palaces beneath the seas,

Ere, on the bright air, thou hadst heard the breeze Pour its full tide of song?

Another thing with thee

Are there not gorgeous cities in the deep,
Buried with flashing gems that darkly sleep,
Hid by the mighty sea?

And say, O lone sea-shell,

Are there not costly things, and sweet perfumes, Scatter'd in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs? Hush thy low moan, and tell.

But yet, and more than all

Has not each foaming wave in fury toss'd
O'er earth's most beautiful, the brave, the lost,
Like a dark funeral pall?

244

TO A SEA SHELL.

"Tis vain-thou answerest not!

Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead—
'Tis ours alone, with sighs, like odours shed,
To hold them unforgot!

Thine is as sad a strain

As if the spirit in thy hidden cell

Pined to be with the many things that dwell
In the wild, restless main.

And yet, there is no sound

Upon the waters, whisper'd by the waves,
But seemeth like a wail from many graves,
Thrilling the air around.

The earth, O moaning shell!

The earth hath melodies more sweet than these,
The music-gush of rills, the hum of bees,
Heard in each blossom's bell.

Are not these tones of earth,

The rustling foliage with its shivering leaves,
Sweeter than sounds that e'en in moonlight eves
Upon the seas have birth?

Alas! thou still wilt moan

Thou'rt like the heart that wastes itself in sighs,
E'en when amid bewildering melodies,

If parted from its own,

THE DROWNED MARINER.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

A MARINER sat on the shrouds one night,
The wind was piping free;

Now bright, now dimm'd was the moonlight pale,
And the phosphor gleam'd in the wake of the whale,
As it flounder'd in the sea;

The scud was flying athwart the sky,

The gathering winds went whistling by,

And the wave, as it tower'd, then fell in spray,
Look'd an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.

The mariner sway'd and rock'd on the mast,
But the tumult pleased him well:
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast,
And the monsters watch'd as they hurried past,
Or lightly rose and fell,-

For their broad, damp fins were under the tide,
And they lash'd as they pass'd the vessel's side,
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim,
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.

Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes
Like an uncurb'd steed along;

A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant bow the water ploughs,

21

*

But the ship is fleet and strong;

(245)

246

THE DROWNED MARINER.

The topsail is reef'd, and the sails are furl'd,
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood;
But there cometh no chill to the mariner's blood.

Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease,
And holdeth by the shroud;

And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,

And the surging heareth loud.

Was that a face, looking up at him,

With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down? Did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.

The mariner look'd, and he saw, with dread,
A face he knew too well;

And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the wave was spread,—
Was there a tale to tell?

The stout ship rock'd with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groan'd, as well he need-
For ever down, as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleam'd from the briny tide.

Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past:
A voice calls loud for thee:

There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last;
The plunging ship on her beams is cast,—
O, where shall thy burial be?

Bethink thee of oaths, that were lightly spoken;
Bethink thee of vows, that were lightly broken;

Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee,
For thou art alone on the raging sea;