Fanned by the boreal blasts, in healthful glow Of ruddy cheeks, we climb the sylvan height, Wild joys to share, which winter can bestow, Plenteous on those, who shrink not, with affright, From scenes which awe, yet rouse, the daring soul. A voice as of the mighty deep is here; The winds are busy mid the branches sere, Their huge tops swaying, onward as they roll, Prelusive of the swelling clouds that bear Heaven's stormy music on the troubled air. II. Wandering, at eve, with finely frenzied eye, COLERIDGE. Power rouses kindred power the soul within : Mid tumult of the tempest's angry din, Enjoyment, in the consciousness of power, Self-held; to highest might then most akin, When worst assailed, in danger's darkest hour. Weak minds, beneath the coming storm, may cower; But bolder spirits rise to keener life, And feel, with each assault, fresh vigour spring; THE OCEAN. I. Calm, or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm, BYRON. Bred inland, I had reached my fifteenth year, Ere yet the waves of ocean on my sight Rolled in their glory. My intense delight, When first I saw those living waves uprear Their crested heads, lives in my memory clear, As seen but yesterday. Along the shore, The storm had wrecked its fury; and the day, New risen, looked wildly on the angry roar Of ocean, thundering on that rock girt bay. My spirit was not by the scene subdued, But kindled rather; as dilating wide It rose, o'er ocean's boundless amplitude, In might of mind, with power, as if to ride, Triumphant, master-like, above the tide. ·II. I could have fancied that the mighty deep WORDSWORTH. Again I sought that headland's rocky crest Where human habitation there was none, Nor work of man. The sun was in the west; The waves lay slumbering on the parent breast; The winds, that late had swept the deep, were flown, Each to his cave: all nature seemed at rest. Thoughtful I watched the steady ebb and flow, That, far as eye could reach, or thought extend, Rolled on, in calmness, and in power below, Power without effort, motion without end; Which, as I gazed, seemed, God-like, still to grow On my awed thoughts, till ocean's mildest mood, Serene in grandeur, all my soul subdued. THE WHITE HILL S. I. Rugged she is, but fruitful nurse of sons Thy varied scenes blend grace, my native land! And there the roaring torrent,- streams that break, Impetuous rushing, from thy mountain strand, With headlong force, that scoops the yielding sand, Man and his works, his caverns stored with snow, Coeval with the rock. Like some lone star, Above the storm, he looks on earth below, Serene in silence, from his throne on high. Serene, sublime, in silence, from thy throne, Thou look'st, dread monarch! wide o'er earth around, Deep awe inspiring, awe till now unknown, Dark, undefined, that humbles to the ground Aspiring pride. Man's spirit bows before Such majesty of might, nor labours more To measure strength with heaven. Earth's giant brood, The Titan monsters, on their beds of fire, Pressed by thy stern rebuke, in vain aspire To shake thee from thy seat: the lava flood, Deep heaving from the centre, unsubdued, Moves not thy steadfast base; nor tempests dire, Tornade, and torrent, thundering at thy side, Change thy stern brow, severe in lordly pride. III. My joy is in the wilderness to breathe The difficult air of the iced mountain's top. BYRON. What are thy thoughts, proud mount! as with a frown, Darkening with dread the distant vales below, Thou lower'st, thus sternly, on our march, while slow We climb the steep ascent? Would'st thou send down Some bolt of vengeance from thy rocky crown, To crush our daring course? Proud mountain! know High o'er thy topmost towers; and thou shalt find, That dwarf thy giant bulk; a brighter ray, Alike in generous feeling and high thought The grand, the lofty, the sublime we see : Yon mighty mountain towers less gloriously, the patriot chief, whom nations sought Than he, Vainly to honor by such monument. In native virtue great, he stood the same, When fortune frowned on worth, as when she lent Her aid, how needless! to augment his fame. Nor, in the eye of reason, is the toil Of humbler virtue, in the vale of life, Where modest worth can passion's onset foil, And truth maintain with error's hosts the strife, Less glorious, than the fame that patriots gain In camp, or court, high hall, or battle plain. |