His steps are not upon thy paths,-thy fields Are not a spoil for him,- thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, 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. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving; - boundless, endless, and sublime The image of Eternity-the throne 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 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers - they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror -'twas 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. Lord Byron ON THE LIDO FROM Julian and Maddalo RODE one evening with Count Maddalo Of Adria towards Venice. A bare strand Is this; an uninhabited sea-side, Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, Abandons; and no other object breaks The waste but one dwarf tree and some few stakes Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes A narrow space of level sand thereon, Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down. This ride was my delight. I love all waste Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare, Harmonizing with solitude, and sent Into our hearts aërial merriment. Percy Bysshe Shelley DRIFTING My soul to-day Is far away Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote: Round purple peaks It sails and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff: With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Under the walls Where swells and falls The bay's deep breast at intervals, Blown softly by, A cloud upon the liquid sky. The day so mild Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail; The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where summer sings and never dies; She glows and shines Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gambolling with the gambolling kid; Or down the walls With tipsy calls, Laugh in the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, And gazes at the far-off ships. Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun. O happy ship, With the blue crystal at your lip! O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew! No more, no more The worldly shore My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Thomas Buchanan Read IN GUERNSEY I HE heavenly bay, ringed round with cliffs and moors, TH Storm-stain'd ravines, and crags that lawns in lay, Soothes as with love the rocks whose guard se cures The heavenly bay. |