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ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal,
From all I may be, or have been before,

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
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;

Man marks the earth with rain—his control
Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain

A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,

Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined and unknown.

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 on 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.

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—
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?

Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay

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,
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 tha 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.

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

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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?

Burns.

ABSENCE.

'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art;

But 'tis the too, too long, endurance
Of absence, that afflicts my heart.

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doomed to weep,

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