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Go, stranger, track the deep,

Free, free the white sails spread!

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

Sea-side Thoughts.

Bernard Barton.

BEAUTIFUL sublime and glorious,

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Mild majestic foaming free; Over time itself, victorious;. Image of eternity.

Sun and moon and stars shine o'er thee,

See thy surface ebb and flow,
Yet attempt not to explore thee
In thy soundless depths below.

Whether morning's splendour steep thee
With the rainbow's glowing grace ·
Tempests rouse or navies sweep thee
"T is but for a moment's space.

Earth her valleys, and her mountains,
Mortal man's behest obey:

Thy unfathomable fountains

Scoff his search and scorn his sway.

Such art thou, stupendous ocean!
But, if overwhelm'd by thee,
Can we think, without emotion,
What must thy Creator be?

The Ocean.

Mrs. Hemans.

SUBLIME is thy prospect, thou proud rolling Ocean,
And fancy surveys thee with solemn delight;
When thy mountainous billows are wild in commotion,
And the tempest is roused by the spirits of night.

When the moon-beams, through winter-clouds faintly appearing,

At intervals gleam on the dark swelling wave;
And the mariner, dubious,-now hoping, now fearing-
May hear the stern Genius-of-hurricanes rave.

But now when thine anger has long been subsiding,
And the tempest has folded the might of its wing,
How clear is thy surface in loveliness gliding,
For April has open'd the portals of spring;

Now soft on-thy-bosom the orient is beaming,
And tremulous breezes are waving thy breast;
On-thy-mirror the clouds and the shadows are streaming,
And morning-and-glory the picture have drest:

No gale but the balmly Favonian is blowing,
In-coral-caves resting, the winds are asleep;
And rich in-the-sunbeam yon pennants are glowing,
That tinge-with-their-colours the silvery deep.

Yet smile, or be dreadful, thou still-changing Ocean,
Tremendous or lovely, resistless or still:
I-view-thee adoring, with hallow'd emotion,

The Pow'r that can hush,-or-arouse,-thee at will.

The Name of England.

THE trumpet-of-the-battle

Hath a high and thrilling tone;

Mrs. Hemans.

And the first deep gun of an ocean-fight
Dread music all its own.

But a mightier power, my England!

Is in that name of thine,

To strike the fire from every heart
Along the banner'd line.

Proudly it woke the spirits

Of yore, the brave and true,

When the bow was bent on Cressy's field,

And the yeoman's arrow flew.

And proudly hath it floated

Through the battles of the sea,

When the red-cross flag o'er smoke-wreaths play'd

Like the lightning in its glee.

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Its echoes have been known;

By a thousand streams the hearts lie low

That have answer'd to its tone.

A thousand ancient mountains
Its pealing note hath stirr'd;
Sound on, and on, for evermore
O thou victorious word!

K

Treasures of the Deep.

Mrs. Hemans.

WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ?--
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells,
Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and in vain
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold
Far-down, and shining-through-their-stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems,- the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal argosies .-

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Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main !
Earth claims not these again!

Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have roll'd
Above the cities of a world gone by !

Sand hath fill'd-up the palaces of old -
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry !
Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play-
Man yields them to decay!

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest

Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave—
Give-back the true and brave!

Give-back the lost and lovely! those for whom

The place was kept, at board and hearth, so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown
But all is not thine own!

To-thee the love-of-woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head -
O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown:-
Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead!

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee -
Restore the dead, thou sea!

The Ship Foundering.

Byron.

THEN rose from-sea,-to-sky the wild farewell,
Then shriek'd the timid and stood-still the brave,-
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;

And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,—

And down she suck'd-with-her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy

And strives to strangle him before he die.

And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder: and then all was hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at-intervals there gush'd,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

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