APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. ROLL on, thou deep and dark blue ocean - roll! He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields And shake him from thee: the vile strength he wields Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay. The armament which thunderstrike the walls Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save theeAssyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since: their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: - not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. - Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Dark-heaving; - boundless, endless, and sublime - Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Made them a terror - 't was a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near. And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. TO INEZ. NAY, smile not on my sullen brow; Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. And dost thou ask, what secret woe And wilt thou vainly seek to know It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambition's honors lost, It is that weariness which springs To me no pleasure Beauty brings; Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom That fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before. What Exile from himself can flee? To Zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, wheree'er I be, The blight of life— the demon Thought. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. What is that worst? Nay do not ask In pity from the search forbear: Smile on nor venture to unmask Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF. THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, Full beams the moon on Actium's coast, And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, The ancient world was won and lost. And now upon the scene I look, The azure grave of many a Roman; Where stern Ambition once forsook His wavering crown to follow woman. Florence! whom I will love as well Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, Had bards as many realms as rhymes, Though Fate forbids such things to be, I cannot lose a world for thee, But would not lose thee for a world. |