The weather-leech of the topsail shivers,
The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken,
The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers,
And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken.
Open one point on the weather-bow,
Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head.
There ’s a shade of doubt on the captain’s brow,
And the...
Come down, ye graybeard mariners,
Unto the wasting shore!
The morning winds are up,—the gods
Bid me to dream no more.
Come tell me whither I must sail,
What peril there may be,
Before I take my life in hand
And venture out to sea!
“We may not tell thee where to sail,
Nor what the dangers are;
Each...
Our mother, loved of all thy sons
So dear, they die, not dying for thee;
Yet are thy fondest, tenderest ones
Thy wanderers far at sea.
Life-long the bitter blue they stem,
Till custom makes it almost fair;
Sweet grow the splintering gales to them,
The icy gloom, the scorching glare.
But thy dear eyes, which shine for...
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o’er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land—Good Night!
A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;...
The Weather-leech of the topsail shivers,
The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken,
The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers,
And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken.
Open one point on the weather-bow,
Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head?
There’s a shade of doubt on the captain’s brow,
And the pilot...
From “Ariadne”
HUNG like a rich pomegranate o’er the sea
The ripened moon; along the trancèd sand
The feather-shadowed ferns drooped dreamfully;
The solitude’s evading harmony
Mingled remotely over sea and land;
A light wind woke and whispered warily,
And myriad ripples tinkled on the strand.
As by the shore, at break of day,
A vanquished chief expiring lay,
Upon the sands, with broken sword,
He traced his farewell to the free;
And there the last unfinished word
He dying wrote, was “Liberty!”
At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell
Of him who thus for freedom fell:
The words he wrote, ere evening came,
...
"Even in our ashes live their wonted fires."
Bury me by the sea,
When on my heart the hand of Death is press'd.
If the soul lingers ere she join the bless'd,
And haunts awhile her clay,
Then 'mid the forest shades I would...
