University of Virginia Library

‘Dear is the Ocean to the Island Bard,
As to the flapping Gull from coastward flying;
Or Swan, that in the bay, when waves are calm,
Conscious of grace, floats proudly on the rise,
And fall of billows; fearless; all the more,
Arching her neck with freedom, and delight;
Oaring her way, with glancing feet reversed,
Striking the enamoured surge to foam minute,
Like silver sparklets on an emerald urn.
—Frail was the tender bark, but fair, which bore
The remnant of the Martyr's exiled seed
O'er the thence-named Erythræan, to the wild
Of waters trusted—God their only guide.
Balm the propitious gales, and glass the sea;
For He had made it smooth, who wisdom gives
To the winged sojourners, to leave the land
Of coming winter for benigner clime.
Like them, they voyaged forth; and, as they went,
The lyre preluded to a pious hymn,
The winds enchanting, and relieving well
The else-wearied oarsman, with its cadences
Solemn, and sweet, and sweeter because solemn.
The Dolphins sported round, as pleased to hear
The anthem on the surge. Silence, and night
Succeeded; and the moonbeams rushed from heaven,
A cataract of light, on measureless
Expanse of ocean, and of air. The stars,
With lamps of love, came dancing on the deep,
A solitude but for our lonely bark,
Companions lovely, smiling from the sky.
—Glorious the Sun-rise on the desart main;
The hum of billows awful, as they wake
Out of their silence, by the breathing Morn
Admonished of his coming, Seraph bright;
And the swift murmur of unnumbered fins,
Rejoicing in his welcome influence warm.
But he who would magnificence behold
Too broad to bear, intolerably bright;
Let him, mid boundless Ocean, in mid noon,
Gaze on the burnished billows, and o'ershade
His dazzled eyes from the volcanic orb,
Making a desolation, how profound
And hushed, throughout the wilderness of waves,
The universe of water, and of sky,
Interminable. Eden; like thy Mount
Cherubic-guarded, on the eternal sea
Of Sunset the great Vision. The wide West
Is as a Temple, and an Ark of clouds:
With pillar, and with cupola, all hues
Of costliest splendour, as in gems, and gold,
The chariot of the Sun. Awhile he stays,
So pausing on the brim ere he descend;
Until the mighty Shadow of his Orb
Apparent rise, where Heaven, and Ocean meet,
And he into her open bosom sink
In motion visible, and both immerge,
In bridal union, mystic, and divine.
All day, and night upon our endless way,
By Angels we were watched; till, lo, the Gull,
And fragrant breezes token gave of land,
Whereof our Dogs were conscious long before.
The faithful Dog, dear to the Shepherd's heart,
Dear partner on the hill side, and lone height,
And meditative as the race he serves,
Inseparable friend—a pious brute.

How beautiful the far Erythræan Isle—
The ocean breezes visit her pale shore;
With grateful warmth, and genial moisture charged,
For wanton flower, and bud of living leaf:
With the far boom of rolling billows, borne
In murmurs on his ear, who muses, lone,
In the dim vale behind the cliffy beach,
On either hand a fair, and verdant hill,
Delightful solitude, an inland scene,
So nigh the world of waters deep, and wide.
And there are minstrelsies of torrent streams
And rivers, growling over rugged beds,
Fringed on each bank with trees as old as Time,
Sown in creation's hour; majestic Oak,
And leaf-proud Elm. And far away the woods,
Pensile, or level, stretch their shadows broad,
On upland slope, in valley serpentine;
Forests, and groves apparelled by the hand
Of the Almighty, with a luxury
Of bough, and branch, and foliage; bounty such
As his alone would on his works bestow.
How grandly rocks, and mountains heave their scalps
Into his heavens—the footstools of his throne.
With what delightful change, he scatters, o'er
The verdant sward, the prodigal flowers, amid
The waving grass, up-sparkling their own hues.
Myrtle, and Rose, and Woodbine; rathe, or late;
Report of human dwellings, to the eye
That, from the hill, the prospect meditates;
Nay, even the stern rocks hath he adorned
With Moss, and Lichen; and the barren heath
With dew-drop Blossoms, elegant though wild,
Small Shrub, and Berry, hyacinthine dark.
For this, thy children, Abel, on the brow
Of yonder hill, have raised a votive shrine,
An altar to his name. There morn, and eve;
Where Eagle once, and Hawk, held sole domain;
Hymns celebrate his greatness; and the voice
Of choral psalm, and anthem magnifies
The praises of the Highest.

Sweet it is,
To praise Him who has cast the exile's lot
In this so lovely isle. Here glows the Vine—
How lush of tint, how frankly clustered. Fig,
And Olive flourish; the ripe Orange blooms.
Who may report his gifts? Who name the sum
Of the spread sands on ocean's shores, the stars
Within the firmament? He gave, even He,
The father's heart to man, to woman her's—
Sweet is the love of woman: sweet is Truth;
Of all things greatest: but far loveliest,
When in the heart of womanhood it lives—
How lovely then, my Junia, if in thine.’