 | Poems |  |
36
Hastings
We give thee many names, unheedful Sea,And some I deem not thou dost well deserve.
For when thy tides majestically swerve
Across the bay, is that inconstancy?
Or when a vessel, driving to the lee,
Where the dark deluge breaks with emerald curve,
Drops her last anchor in the seething surf,
Why blame we not the thwarting blast, but thee?
Thou laughest and thou ravest in thy sleep;
Or, blind as Samson, grindest at thy mill,
Howe'er tormenting winds may make thee leap!
Earthquakes may toss the landscape; yonder hill,
Pushed by imprisoned waters, downward sweep
Into the valley; thou abidest still!
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