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APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

191

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.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage-what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free,

And many a tyrant since; their shores obey

The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:--not so thou,

Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed-in breeze or gale or storm,

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity—the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy

I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me

Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror,—'twas a pleasing fear;

For I was, as it were, a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.

THE WINDS.-WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

YE winds, ye unseen currents of the air,

Softly ye played, a few brief hours ago;
Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair

O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow;
Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue,
Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew;
Before you the catalpa's blossom flew,

Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.

How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound;

Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might;
The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground:

The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight.
The clouds before you shoot like eagles past;
The homes of men are rocking in your blast;
Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast,

Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight.

The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain,

To 'scape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain ;

The harvest field becomes a river's bed;
And torrents tumble from the hills around;
Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned;
And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound,

Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread.

Ye dart upon the deep; and straight is heard

A wilder roar; and men grow pale, and pray; Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird

Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray. See, to the breaking mast the sailor clings; Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, And take the mountain billow on your wings,

And pile the wreck of navies round the bay.

Why rage ye thus ?-no strife for liberty

Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through fear, Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free,

And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere:

THE WORTH OF WOMAN.

193

For ye where born in freedom where you blow?
Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go;
Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow,

Her isles where summer blossoms all the year.

O ye wild winds; a mightier Power than yours

In chains upon the shore of Europe lies;
The sceptered throng, whose fetters he endures,

Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes;
And armed warriors all around him stand,
And, as he struggles, tighten overy band,
And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand,

To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise.

Yet, Oh! when that wronged Spirit of our race

Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains, And leap in freedom from his prison-place,

Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, To waste the loveliness that time could spare, To fill the earth with woe, and blot her fair

Unconscious breast with blood from human veins.

But may he like the Spring-time come abroad,

Who crumbles Winter's gyves with gentle might,
When in the genial breeze, the breath of God,

Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light;
Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet,
The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet;
And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet,

Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.

THE WORTH OF WOMAN-TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER.

HONORED be woman; she beams on the sight,
Graceful and fair, like a being of light;
Scatters around her, wherever she strays,
Roses of bliss o'er our thorn-covered ways;
Roses of Paradise, sent from above,
To be gathered and twined in a garland of love,

Man, on passion's stormy ocean,

Tossed by surges mountains high,
Courts the hurricane's commotion,

Spurns at reason's feeble cry.
Loud the tempest roars around him,

Louder still it roars within;
Flashing lights of hope confound him,

Stuns him life's incessant din.

Woman invites him with bliss in her smile,
To cease from his toil, and be happy awhile;
Whispering wooingly, come to my bower,
Go not in search of the phantom of power;
Honor and wealth are illusory, come;
Happiness dwells in the temples of home.

Man, with fury, stern and sayage,

Persecutes his brother man,
Reckless if he bless or ravage,

Action, action, still his plan.
Now creating, now destroying,
Ceaseless wishes tear his breast;

Ever seeking, ne'er enjoying,
Still to be, but never blest.

Woman, contented in silent repose,
Enjoys in its beauty life's flower as it blows,
And waters and tends it with innocent heart;
Far richer than man with his treasures of art,
And wiser by far in her circle confined,
Than he with his science and flights of the mind.

Coldly to himself sufficing,

Man disdains the gentle arts,
Knoweth not the bliss arising

From the interchange of hearts.
Slowly through his bosom stealing,

Flows the genial current ou,
Till, by age's frost congealing,

It iş hardened into stone.

TRUE NOBILITY.

195

She, like the barp that instinctively rings,
As the night-breathing zephyr soft sighs on the strings,
Responds on each impulse with ready reply,
Whether sorrow or pleasure her sympathy try:
And tear-drops and smiles on her countenance play,
Like sunshine and showers of a morning in May.

Through the range of man's dominion,

Terror is the ruling word,
And the standard of opinion

Is the temper of the sword.
Strife exults, and pity, blusbing,

From the scene despairing flies,
Where to battle madly rushing,

Brother upon brother dies.

Woman commands with a milder control,
She rules by enchantment the realm of the soul;
As she glances around in the light of her smile,
The war of the passions is hushed for awhile,
And discord, content from his fury to cease,
Reposes entranced on the pillows of peace.

TRUE NOBILITY.-CHARLES SWAIN.

WHAT is noble? To inherit

Wealth, estate, and proud degree?
There must be some other merit

Higher yet than these for me!
Something greater far must enter

Into life's majestic span,
Fitted to create and center

True nobility in man!

What is noble ? 'Tis the finer

Portion of our Mind and Heart;
Linked to something still diviner

Than mere language can impart:

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