TO THE SEA.

In ruin end: and now their proud success

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But plants new terrors on the victor's brow.
What pain to quit the world, just made their own,
Their nest so deeply downed, and built so high!
Too low they build who build beneath the stars.

YOUNG.

TO THE SEA.

THOU boundless, shining, glorious Sea,
With ecstasy I gaze on thee;

Joy, joy to him whose early beam
Kisses thy lip, bright Ocean-stream!

Thanks for the thousand hours, old Sea,
Of sweet communion held with thee;
Oft as I gazed, thy billowy roll
Woke the deep feelings of my soul.

Drunk with the joy, thou deep-toned Sea,
My spirit swells to heaven with thee;
Or sinking with thee, seeks the gloom
Of nature's deep, mysterious tomb.

At evening, when the sun grows red,
Descending to his watery deep,
The music of thy murmuring bed
Soothes e'en the weary earth to sleep.

Then listens thee the evening star,
So sweetly glancing from afar;

And Luna hears thee, when she breaks
Her light in million-coloured flakes.

Oft, when the noonday heat is o'er,
I seek with joy the breezy shore,
Sink on thy boundless, billowy breast,
And cheer me with refreshing rest.

The poet, child of heavenly birth,
Is suckled by the mother Earth;
But thy blue bosom, holy Sea,
Cradles his infant fantasy.

The old blind minstrel on the shore
Stood listening thy eternal roar,
And golden ages, long gone by,
Swept bright before his spirit's eye.

On wing of swan, the holy flame
Of melodies celestial came,
And Iliad and Odyssey

Rose to the music of the Sea.
C. T. Brooks.

F. L. STOLBERG.

TO THE OCEAN, IN ITS VARIOUS STATES. 17

TO THE OCEAN, IN ITS VARIOUS STATES.

"Thy way is in the sea, and thy path in the deep waters."

(PSALM Ixxvii. 19.)

I WATCHED thee, Ocean, as the morning ray
Was on the wandering billows softly dwelling;
And when the dusky light of parting day

Revealed thy crested waves, so darkly swelling.

And I have loved thee, when the moonlight beam
Glimmered in silver light upon thy tide;
When from the sandy beach that trembling gleam
Streamed o'er the mighty waters far and wide.

Whether, in summer calm, the rippling wave Unto the pebbled shore makes music sweet; Or when, portentous of the seaman's grave, Hoarse winter's chiding does the billow meet:

Still, wildly melancholy is thy sound,

From the far depths of time, for aye the sameA sad continuous anthem, deep, profound—

Since earth and ocean from their Maker came!

Still chiming on, thro' death, and wo, and change, Unmoved though mighty empires fade and die: When war's dread course did thro' the nations range, Unceasingly arose thy melody.

B

And thou art still the same, tho' from thy surge Wanderers have gone, who there return no more; How falls thy murmur like a funeral dirge

O'er hearts bereaved, along thy sounding shore!

But ever there do thoughts of humble praise,
And awe, and adoration, rise of thee,
Almighty Framer! for in all thy ways,

In the "deep waters" we thy wonders see.

Surely His mighty path we here may trace,

Who from dark chaos sent the foaming wave. Lord! in thy "lowest works" may we have grace To own the arm omnipotent to save!

MRS H. W. RICHTER.

THE ATTRIBUTES OF THE DEEP.

THERE's beauty in the deep:

The wave is bluer than the sky;

And, though the lights shine bright on high,

More softly do the sea-gems glow,

That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid;
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine.

There's beauty in the deep.

THE DEAD SEA.

There's music in the deep:-
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore,
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves, with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away.

There's music in the deep.

:

There's quiet in the deep :

Above, let tides and tempests rave,

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And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend,
With sin and sorrow, to the end;
Here, far beneath the tainted foam
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above.
There's quiet in the deep.

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. (American.)

THE DEAD SEA.

THE wind blows chill across those gloomy waves;

Oh! how unlike the green and dancing main! The surge is foul, as if it rolled o'er graves: Stranger, here lie the cities of the plain.