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The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard

With a Memoir by Blanchard Jerrold

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THE WAVE.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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169

THE WAVE.

1823.(Suggested by an early recollection of a beautiful poem by Shelley, entitled ‘The Cloud.’)

A being I take from the fountains that break
In the depths of the ocean sand,
And my form is curled through the yielding world
To freshen the living land.
And the sparkles I fling from my watery wing,
As it mounts to meet the day,
Are gems for the hair of the sea-girls fair
That rise on my shining way.
I pass by the place where the earth's cold race
Repose in silent cells;
And the lovely and lone have found a throne
On a heap of glittering shells.
I sing for hours to leaves and flowers
That never beheld the moon,
But sprinkle their sheen of gold and green
To thank my lingering tune.

170

I glide like a smile o'er the coral pile,
With the ocean snake entwined;
And sweep in my track the dolphin's back,
Leaving a light behind.
Bright wealth on my wings for a hundred kings
From the sea's blue mine I bring;
The loveliest glare that slumbers there
I waft like a waking thing,
While I strew the strands with diamond sands,
And to beauty a pearl I fling.
And every star on its cloud-built car
Beholds its dominion of light,
As I welcome each ray with a spark from the spray
That trembles and shines all night.
I waft some skiff where an eye on the cliff
Looks fearfully o'er the foam,
And save from the deck of some beautiful wreck
The riches of those that roam.
While all that have being in water are seeing
Their crystal casements through;
As I dart where pride hath splashed and died,
And pain hath shrieked adieu;
Where fear hath gasped, where hope hath clasped,
And love when life was new.
The cloud on high, the wave of the sky,
I choose for my shadowy bride,
And she comes sometimes from her shoreless climes,
And kisses my trembling tide.

171

But like all that is fair, on earth or in air,
She dissolves in silent pain;
And weeps on my flood her silvery blood
That gushes in silent rain.
Then I turn from my bower of the fresh sea-flower,
Which an emerald lamp hangs o'er;
I moan farewell to my palace of shell,
Where the song-echo woke before—
And the night-spirits dim hear my last low hymn
As I faint on the fading shore.