The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe with his letters and journals, and his life, by his son. In eight volumes |
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[—“I to the ocean gave] |
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[CHAPTER I.]
The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe | ||
18
[—“I to the ocean gave]
—“I to the ocean gave
My mind, and thoughts as restless as the wave.
Where crowds assembled I was sure to run,
Hear what was said, and muse on what was done.
To me the wives of seamen loved to tell
What storms endanger'd men esteem'd so well;
No ships were wreck'd upon that fatal beach
But I could give the luckless tale of each.
In fact, I lived for many an idle year
In fond pursuit of agitations dear:
For ever seeking, ever pleased to find
The food I sought, I thought not of its kind.
My mind, and thoughts as restless as the wave.
Where crowds assembled I was sure to run,
Hear what was said, and muse on what was done.
To me the wives of seamen loved to tell
What storms endanger'd men esteem'd so well;
No ships were wreck'd upon that fatal beach
But I could give the luckless tale of each.
In fact, I lived for many an idle year
In fond pursuit of agitations dear:
For ever seeking, ever pleased to find
The food I sought, I thought not of its kind.
“I loved to walk where none had walk'd before,
About the rocks that ran along the shore;
Or far beyond the sight of men to stray,
And take my pleasure when I lost my way:
For then 'twas mine to trace the hilly heath,
And all the mossy moor that lies beneath.
Here had I favourite stations, where I stood
And heard the murmurs of the ocean-flood,
With not a sound beside, except when flew
Aloft the lapwing, or the grey curlew. . . .
When I no more my fancy could employ—
I left in haste what I could not enjoy,
And was my gentle mother's welcome boy.”
About the rocks that ran along the shore;
Or far beyond the sight of men to stray,
And take my pleasure when I lost my way:
For then 'twas mine to trace the hilly heath,
And all the mossy moor that lies beneath.
Here had I favourite stations, where I stood
And heard the murmurs of the ocean-flood,
With not a sound beside, except when flew
Aloft the lapwing, or the grey curlew. . . .
When I no more my fancy could employ—
I left in haste what I could not enjoy,
And was my gentle mother's welcome boy.”
[CHAPTER I.]
The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe | ||