COME O'ER THE SEA.

COME o'er the sea,
Maiden! with me,

Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows.
Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same where'er it goes.

Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;

'Tis life where thou art, 't is death where thou art not!

Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden! with me;

Come wherever the wild wind blows.

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same where'er it goes.

Is not the sea

Made for the free,

Land, for courts and chains alone?

Here we are slaves,

But on the waves,

Love and liberty's all our own.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us!
Then come o'er the sea,
Maiden! with me;

Come wherever the wild wind blows.

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same where'er it goes.

BY THE ROLLING WAVES.

MOORE.

By the rolling waves I roam,

And look along the sea,

And dream of the day and the gleaming sail,
That bore my love from me.

His bark now sails the Indian seas,
Far down the summer zone :

But his thoughts, like swallows, fly to me
By the northern waves alone

Nor will he delay, when winds are fair,
To waft him back to me;

But haste, my love! or my grave will be made,

By the sad and moaning sea.

R. H. STODDARD.

SONG.

COME on the bright sea lonely,
O maiden fair and free,

Come homeless and friendless, and only

With me, with me!

My boat on the blue wave heaves:
See! what a fairy thing,
With its pennons, mast, and keel;
'Tis but a little shell –

But there I am king!

The Earth is made for the slave,
O maiden free!

But for man, the true and brave,
The boundless sea;
Waves whisper in their flow

A mystery

Of a secret spell they know,
Of Life and of Love, and oh!
Of Liberty!

From the French of DE VIGNY.

O MAID OF ISLA.

O MAID of Isla, from the cliff
That looks on troubled wave and sky,
Dost thou not see yon little skiff
Contend with ocean gallantly?
Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge,
And steeped her leeward deck in foam,
Why does she war unequal urge?

O Isla's maid, she seeks her home !

O Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark!

Her white wing gleams through mist and spray Against the storm-cloud lowering dark,

As to the rock she wheels away. Where clouds are dark and billows rave, Why to the shelter should she come Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave? O maid of Isla, 't is her home!

SCOTT.

SONG.

OUR boat to the waves go free,

By the bending tide, where the curled wave breaks, Like the track of the wind on the white snow-flakes; Away! away! 'Tis a path o'er the sea.

Blasts may rave!

spread the sail,

For our spirits can wrest the power from the wind, And the gray clouds yield to the sunny mind; Fear not we the whirl of the gale.

Waves on the beach, and the wild sea-foam,
With a leap, and a dash, and a sudden cheer,
Where the sea-weed makes its bending home,
And the sea-birds swim on the crests so clear,
Wave after wave, they are curling o'er,
Where the white sand dazzles along the shore.
W. E. CHANNING.