 | My Sonnets |  |
35
WRITTEN AT HASTINGS.
1
Majestic ocean, hail to thee! AgainI gaze upon thy tumbling waves, once more
I tread, with joyous steps, thy sounding shore.
Thrice three long winters the bright leaves have slain,
On autumn's golden trees, since, hoary main,
I left thee last. In darkness to thy shore
I came; thy mantle was the night. I saw
Thee not; but not thy thunder-voice, in vain,
Told of thy power and might, and such deep awe
Stole over me, as, on the darkening side
Of some lone mountain, I have felt. Before
Me, now, thy billows roll in light, and wide
And far they race along the heaving seas,
And toss their foam-white manes, and battle with the breeze.
October 23rd, 1842.
2
Silence sits throned upon the voiceless deep:How changed since yesterday! then the wild roar
Of billows, numberless, the echoing shore
Flung back with deafening clamour. Hushed in sleep
The bellowing surges lie: no more they sweep,
Rank upon rank, with savage cries, to war,
While their white plumes of feathery foam dance o'er
Their hosts, by howling winds high tost. They leap
To scale earth's beetling battlements no more,
Beneath whose rushing forms marched on the night.
Not the same ocean seems it that we saw
So lately: scarce a ripple rocks the light,
Or mighty shadows, that come down to rest,
From the white, brooding, clouds that float above its breast.
November 12th, 1842.
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