University of Virginia Library

Not at the gate of heaven, not in the land
Of psychic dream, pours forth thy soul in song,
Lark of the marshes, of the pastures rich!
Enough thou singest in a pearl-grey sky;
The still'd sea rimpling on the hush'd sea-sand
Pauses in sunlight with uplifted crests
And listens. . . . Ever in a dream at noon
Lie lake-like, croon upon the crimpled shore
And languish, shallow sea! There shall not fail
Slow flights of solan geese with flashing wings,
And round the fosses, over dykes and meads
The martin ever with a plaintive note,
And doleful mew, shall call. So still wash on!
With mazy melodies of winds and birds
Mingle, thou mystery-voice!...Life-breathing tract,
Amidst composing magic of a faint,
Ethereal haze, upon that silent verge
Mix with the silent sky! O lambent blue!
Blue of the ocean, glass'd from heaven above,
Still draw the soul, alike on marsh and height,
Where the mole burrows, where the eagle soars;
On bleak, high crests, on the precipitous crests,
Whence torrents plunge to meet thee, draw the soul.
Amid the lonely walks of daily life,
Right on the summits of exalted thought,
Attract her still, and give the wild, white wings
Which o'er thee bear thy furthest-flighted bird.
Then in some vastness of thine underworld
She shall abide with thee—till twilight falls,
Possess thy splendour, thine immensity,
And compass all thy bounds in loving thought—
Yea, in adoring thought—shall so awhile
Be satisfied and deem at length she rests,
Made one with being which is vast as her's.
Yet thou shalt fail, for twilight shuts thee in;
Thy strong spell utterly dissolves; thy voice
Grows hoarse and ominous, cold vapours brood
About the shining beauty of thy breast.
And, when the shifting wind begins to chafe,
Thy bitter discontent of brooding depths
Spumes upward; a vain madness passes through
Thy barren nature; on the rocks, the beach,
Thou ragest, passionful and anguish-tost.
Grand art thou then, yet peace is far from thee!
But when the startled moon among the clouds
Begins to scurry, and with fitful rays
Thine eager waste illumines, dire thou art,
With wretchedness full-voiced in all thy waves;
And then we know thee in the want thou hast.
O for the footsteps of the Prince of Peace
To still thy tumult, for His voice to still
Our stormy hearts! There is no help in thee;
Our need is thine; and what, O sea, thou art,
All Nature is, a message to the soul,
Assuagement sometimes and some ministry,
But not true rest or true beatitude!

Yet in the sweet peace of a day to come
There shall be no more sea of storm and pain,
But splendid calm, lucidity and depth,
With gladness in immensity like thine,
O royal ocean whom we hail and love!