THE sea hath its pearls,

The heaven hath its stars;

But my heart, my heart,

My heart hath its love.

Great are the sea and the heaven;
Yet greater is my heart,
And fairer than pearls and stars,
Flashes and beams my love.

Thou little, youthful maiden,

Come unto my great heart; My heart and the sea, and the heaven Are melting away with love.

From the German of HEINE.



WHEN stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,

As stars look on the sea.

For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest when they shine,

Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light

Beneath the heaven of thine.

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There is an hour when angels keep

Familiar watch o'er men,

When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep –

Sweet spirit, meet me then.

There is an hour when holy dreams

Through slumber fairest glide, And in that mystic hour it seems

Thou shouldst be by my side.


The thoughts of thee too sacred are
For daylight's common beam;
I can but know thee as my star,
My angel and my dream!
When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,

As stars look on the sea.

E. L. BULWer.


By the margent of the sea

I would rear myself a home;
Where the mighty waters be,

On the edges of their foam.
Ribs of sand should be the mounds
In my grounds;

My grasses should be ocean-weeds,

Strung with pulpy beads;

And my blossoms should be shells,
Bleaching white,

Washed from ocean's deepest cells

By the billows, morn and night. Morn and night-in both their light,

Up and down the paven sand

I would tramp, while Day's great lamp
Rose or set, on sea and land;
Through a sea of vapors dark,
Glimmering, like a burning bark,
Drifting o'er its yawning tomb,
With a red and lurid gloom!
Seldom should its wake of gold
On the waters be unrolled;
Seldom its sister, chaste and white,
Lift her silver veil of light:
Neither wholly dark, nor bright,
Gray by day, and gray by night -
That's the light for me
By the margent of the sea!

From my window, when I rose

In the morning, I would mark The gray sea in its endless throes, And many a bark !

Brooding o'er the pallid sails,

That are naught to me and mine,
I would conjure up the gales,
Soon to draggle them in brine:
Then, my cloak about my face,
Up and down the sands I'd pace,
Making foot-prints for the spray
To wash away.

Waves might break along the shore,
And thunders roar;

Not for me, that hear aghast,
The solemn moaning of the Past!
Wrecks might line the wasteful sand,
Treasures heaped on every hand; -
I should only,ah! that only!
Is there anything so lonely?-
See the golden argosie

Which, in youth, went down with me!
And if storms should come, and rain
Pour in torrents down the sky-
What care I?

What cares any one in pain?

Are not tears still wrung from me? Woe is me! and all in vain; Falling faster than the rain,

In the sea!

But they would be over then,
And I would no longer weep;
Grief is for the sea of men;
By God's ocean it must sleep!
Happy, happy would I be,
By the margent of the sea!

Up and down the barren beaches;
Round the ragged belts of land;

In along the curving reaches;

Out along the horns of sand;

Over the ledges of the rocks,
Where the surges comb their locks,
And their wreathed buds remain,
Not to bloom again –

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