TO THE BREEZE.
AFTER A PROTRACTED CALM IN THE GULF OF MEXICO.
I.
Thou com'st at last! Our sorrow is at end;
Thou com'st, and hast our blessing, pleasant breeze.
Yet where hast thou been wandering, fickle friend?
Where, when the midnight gather'd to her brow
Her pale and silent minister, wast thou?
On what far, sullen, solitary seas,
Piping the mariner's requiem, didst thou tend
The home-returning bark,
Curling the white foam o'er her plunging prow,—
White, when the rolling waves about her all were dark?
II.
Ah! thou didst woo her sweetly as she lay,
Still idly rocking on the unconscious deep;
Thou sought'st her with a breath
Of spicy odor from Sonora's vales;
And, with the sweetest of imploring gales,
That seem'd like life to death,
Filling her yellow sails,
Beguiled her on her way.
With sudden voice, like that of mountain bird
Singing, thou wok'st her from her dreary sleep,
Until her every pulse of life grew stirr'd:
Her fluttering pennant was the first to fly,
Then the great vans swell'd out delightedly,
And, with the song of land he loves to hear,
Thou bad'st the mariner cheer!
III.
Oh! well thou know'st the mission that is thine,
And, when in sluggish bonds old ocean slept,
Making of life no sign,—
While the faint moaning o'er his breast that crept
Seem'd like the breathings of eternity
Above the grave of the unburied Time,—
Then didst thou clothe thyself in wings of prime,
Then speed thy work of mercy.—How the tar,
His form reclined along the burning deck,
Stretch'd ever more his eager eye afar,
Still watching for thy coming—for the speck,
Marking thy shadow, from some giant steep,
Down darting to the embraces of the deep!
IV.
Late, but not faithless to thy charge, thy flight
Soon came to bless his sight.
So long a fond and watching worshipper,
He knew to hail thy coming, nor to err,
No matter what thy shape, or whence thy wing,
Thou wert his passion. By the dearest names
He did implore thy presence: “My sweet breeze,
Whither! oh whither!”—I have heard him sing
Rudely, but with a strength that feeling tames
To fondness in rough natures—“My delight!
Where art thou—where, oh! beauty of the seas,—
My breeze, my pleasant breeze!”
V.
Were all the charms by mortal passion sung
As worthy of the tongue!
Ah! breath of life to nature, thou art sure
The image of that ever young and pure,
Superior spirit, which, when all was dim,
Ere yet creation sang her choral hymn,
And darkness brooded o'er the stagnant deep,
Moved on the waters, waking them from sleep,
And rousing them to purposes of Him
For whom all wings have flight!
Born in the solemn night,
Ere skies had birth in bright,
With uncreated watchers for the sight,—
Thine was the music, through the firmament
By the fond nature sent,
To hail the happy birth,
And guide to sea and earth
The glorious wing, the blessing eye of light!
VI.
Music to us no less,
Thou com'st in our distress,
To ope the pathway, all made clear by thee,
Through the wide waste of sea!
Soothing, thou bring'st to him who goes alone
Unwatch'd and unremember'd o'er the wave,
Perchance his grave!
Should he there perish, to thy simple moan
What hope to add, from human tenderness,
One fond imploring tone!
VII.
I bless thee, gentle breeze!
Sweet minister to many a fond desire,
Thou bear'st me to my sire,
Thou, and these rolling seas!
What, O dear God of this great element,
Are we before thee, that its breath is sent,
Obedient to young love and eager hope?
But that its pinion with our path is blent,
We had been doom'd, blind, weak, and dark, to grope,
Where plummet's cast is vain, and human art
Lacking all chart!
