Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts,

like the blast of the east-wind,

Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams!

SONGS.

SEA-WEED.

WHEN descends on the Atlantic

The gigantic

Storm-wind of the equinox,

Landward in his wrath he scourges

The toiling surges,

Laden with sea-weed from the rocks:

From Bermuda's reefs; from edges

Of sunken ledges,

In some far-off, bright Azore;

From Bahama, and the dashing,

Silver-flashing

Surges of San Salvador;

From the tumbling surf, that buries

The Orkneyan skerries,

Answering the hoarse Hebrides;

And from wrecks of ships, and drifting

Spars, uplifting

On the desolate, rainy seas;

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting

On the shifting

Currents of the restless main;

Till in sheltered coves, and reaches

Of sandy beaches,

All have found repose again.