Yet more, the Depths have more! - Thy waves have

roll'd

Above the cities of the world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,

Seaweed o'ergrown the halls of revelry! Dash o'er them Ocean! in thy scornful play, Man yields them to decay!

Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar,

The battle-thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave! Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely! - Those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long, The prayer went up through midnight's breathless

gloom,

And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, -But all is not thine own!

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown ; Yet must thou hear a voice

Restore the dead!

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee

Restore the dead, thou Sea!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD.

I.

THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea,
Why takest thou its melancholy voice?
And with that boding cry

Along the waves dost thou fly?

O! rather, Bird, with me

Through the fair land rejoice!

II.

Thy flitting form comes ghostly, dim, and pale,
As driven by a beating storm at sea ;
Thy cry is weak and scared,

As if thy mates had shared

The doom of us. Thy wail

What does it bring to me?

III.

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Restless and sad; as if in strange accord

With the motion and the roar

Of waves that drive to shore,

One spirit did ye urge

IV.

Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall,
Old Ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead,
From out thy gloomy cells

A tale of mourning tells -
Tells of man's woe and fall,

His sinless glory fled.

V.

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit never more.

Come, quit with me the shore,

For gladness and the light

Where birds of summer sing.

THE LEE-SHORE.

R. H. DANA.

SLEET, and Hail, and Thunder!
ye Winds that rave

And

Till the sands thereunder

Tinge the sullen wave —

Winds that like a demon
Howl with horrid note
Round the toiling seaman
In his tossing boat-

From his humble dwelling
On the shingly shore,
Where the billows swelling
Keep such hollow roar

From that weeping woman
Seeking with her cries

Succor superhuman

From the frowning skies

From the urchin pining

For his father's knee From the lattice shiningDrive him out to sea!

Let broad leagues dissever
Him from yonder foam;-
O God! to think man ever
Comes too near his Home!

THOMAS HOOD.

THE OCEAN'S MOAN.

πᾶσαν δ ̓ ἐπλησας φωνας ἄλα. Moschus.

STREAMS that sweep where thousands languish
On the mountain, in the glen,
Seaward bear each cry of anguish
Uttered by the sons of men;

Hence it is that ever Ocean

Hath so sad, so wild a moan; Calm, or lashed in wild commotion, Therefore is its dirge-like tone.

Moaning for the dead and dying
With its ever voiceful waves,
For the countless forms that lying
Whiten in its coral caves;
Earth the broken-hearted pillows,

Rivers tell it to the sea,

Shall not Ocean, with its billows,

Their eternal mourner be?

ANONYMOUS.