CLXXVI. Upon the blue Symplegades: long years — We have had our reward That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. CLXXVII. Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, I feel myself exalted Can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot CLXXVIII. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, CLXXIX. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean roll! Mán marks the earth with ruin 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, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. CLXXX. His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 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 in 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. CLXXXI. 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. CLXXXII. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee CLXXXIII. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Calm or convuls'd-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. CLXXXIV. And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy CLXXXV. My task is done-my song hath ceased-my theme Has died into an echo; it is fit The spell should break of this protracted dream. The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit My midnight lamp - and what is writ, is writ, Would it were worthier! but I am not now That which I have been and my visions flit and the glow Less palpably before me Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering, faint, and low. |