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ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is society, where none intrudes,
From these our interviews, in which I steal,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean, roll 1
Man marks the earth with rain—his control
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
And send'st him, shivering on thy playful spray,
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth :—there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee and arbiter of war;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
Has dried up realms to deserts ;—not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play— Time writes no wrinkle in thine azure brow— Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where th' Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Icing the pole; or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of eternity—the throne
Of tha Invisible; even from out thy slime
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
Made them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here.
Byron. TO MARY IN HEAVEN,
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lovest to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade I
Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast r
That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love I Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace;
Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 'Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care; Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hearst thou the groans that rend his breast?
'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
But 'tis the too, too long, endurance
The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,