University of Virginia Library

THE GREAT PEACE-MAKER.

“Slumbrous immensity that knows no bounds,
(Since my great depths are hidden from myself),
And hoary age, uncounted by the links
Of man's brief generations,—these are mine,
Alone of earth's prime elements; and thus,
In contemplation of the moving spheres
That shine upon my bosom, I repose,
Murmuring of ancient Gods and Phantoms pale,
Primordial rulers of the elder world—
Majestical Annihilations, now.”
While thus in solemn monologue, the Sea
Brooded on twilight times, there slowly rose
A crest that wore a pallid diadem
Above two cave-like eyes, that, seeming blind,
Shot ever and anon a lightning ray
From out the darkness—piercing the far space—
Then all again in darkness. A form appeared,
Of length voluminous, like the swarthy train
Of some stupendous serpent, wise and old,
Which rolled its coils with measured energy,
And noiseless as a shadow o'er the grass,
Unto the brink of the impending cliff,
And, with its head outstretched, peered gravely down,
Scanning the wonders of the heaving main.
Again the Sea in cavernous murmurs spake:—
“What freights and hopes my fierce uplifting storms
Have scattered into spots of drifting foam,
O Memory forbear to chronicle;
For I have borne a large allotted share
In old Destruction's work, and fain would sink
Within myself, no more to make response
To winds, or thunders, or the voice of Death,
But sweep into a silence and a dream,
Listening the hush of mine eternity.”
The Serpent-form that o'er the beetling cliff
Peered down with earnest speculative head,
Lower and lower, now in slow descent
Glode softly, while the volumed train that lay
Athwart the upper fields moved, as it seemed,
By fitful glancing lights that urged it on:
Meantime the Sea still held its solemn theme.
“But rest unbroken and immortal calm
Are not for me; my destiny involves
Tempest and shipwreck and the waste of life,
With terror and despair for those at home.
I am the element whom none profane
By social teachings and a useful aim,
Sacred alike from consort with mankind,
And man's domestic vassals, Earth and Fire,
Which do his bidding constantly, and live
Subdued beside him by a master-hand,
Which puts them to all services and ends.”
Now, while the Sea held commune with itself,
Softly the Telegraphic coil unwound,
And, fold by fold, moved gliding down the cliff,
And underneath the waves. The bottom reached,
Onward it swerved with undulating line,
But course determined; and its hollow eyes,
That showed no light nor vision, led the way,
By spirit instinctive, while the train moved on,
Through the dark silence of the abysmal sea.
Again old Ocean spake:—
“Man ploughs and sows,
And penetrates the bowels of the Earth
For mines and treasure; likewise measuring
Her periods and the changes of her rocks,
Above, and deep beneath. I know no change,
Master, or measurer, companion, friend;
Like the sublime old Heavens, I dwell alone,
Apart from alteration through all times—
Apart from man's intrusion, who but dares,
In his frail bark, at mercy of the winds,
The thin foam-surface of my empery
To skim. But what is this?—A Shape unknown
Moves through my lowest depths. Say, what art thou?”
THE TELEGRAPH.
I am the instrument of man's desire
To hold communion with his fellow man,
In distant fields—in other climes afar—
Swifter than flight of migratory bird—
Nay, swift almost as speech from mouth to mouth.

THE SEA.
Man hath his ships, and on my surface holds
Permission to appear; but for my depths,
They have been sacred evermore. Depart!

THE TELEGRAPH.
Slow are his ships, O Sea, when wind and sail
Propel, and e'en the engines that surpass
All sails, are tedious when compared with me.
Thou measurest not thy being by its time;
But men are children of a varying span;
Their life is made of years, their years of days,
And every day to them built up of hours,
Which gives them all the hold they have on earth,
To do and suffer.

THE SEA.
'Tis their destiny:
Seek not by science to disturb the law
Which framed humanity, and meted out
Its time and space. Return, and climb the rock.

THE TELEGRAPH.
But science also is man's destiny—
Whereby 'tis granted to his working brain,
His industry, his patience and resolve,
To change his old relations with the law
Of space and time; henceforth dependent made
On man's advance in knowledge, and the power
Of using knowledge.

THE SEA.
Till perchance his mind,
Grown mad with its ambition and success,
This strange encroachment on my solemn depths
May seek to raise into some mastery
Over my realm; wherefore, O Serpent-shape,
Turn back, lest I uprend thee, and aloft
Send drifting like a wreck of ropes, till cast
By my indignant waves upon the strand,
To rot amidst the weeds.

THE TELEGRAPH.
Awhile forbear,
Great nurse and cradle of the infant Earth!
Nor scorn man's efforts at a natural growth,
Which in some distant age may hope to find
Maturity, if not perfection.

THE SEA.
Speak:
I am no friend to the busy insect man—
Nor yet his foe. His white sail cometh—goeth—
His engines with the long black train of clouds,
Pass and repass. So let them. To my vastness,
The surfaces they traverse are as lines
Of spider-work against the moving sky.
I scarce observe their presence;—therefore speak:
But pause while speaking—for I well observe
That never hast thou ceased to glide along
While holding parley.

THE TELEGRAPH.
Wondrous is my power,
And certain in its action; but, O Sea,
I must lie humbly underneath thy throne,
Accordant with thy laws; therefore, I pray,
Be patient of my progress, and receive
This justifying creed of human hopes.

THE SEA.
My caverns hear thee, but perchance the sands
May be thine only chronicle;—erased
With the next tide.

THE TELEGRAPH.
Let my words be erased
When they have done their work.

THE SEA.
Slumber comes o'er me—
But in my visions shall thy voice be heard.

THE TELEGRAPH.
In ages past, the sovereigns of the earth
Held human lives as dust beneath their feet,
And neighbouring nations born but to be made
Their tributary vassals; distant lands,
Having thy broad arm thrown between, appeared
As barbarous,—worthy conquest, or contempt,
Long devastating wars, or all the scorn
That ignorance could breed. The earth was then
A feasting place and footstool for its kings.
The kings endowed the soldiers and the priests,
Those with their golden garb—with fruitful fields
The others; both becoming thus a power
Within a power, and all cementing close
Despotic thrones. The People, body and mind,
Subdued like metal cast in sandy moulds,
Not knowing their own strength, or being weak
By ignorance, and lack of rational will,
So that they starved not, question'd not the right
Of aught, as ordered by these heaven-sent kings,
With their strong armies and their banded priests.
Whereof it came, that nation thought of nation,
Not as a part of the great family
Of human kind, but, mainly, as a horde
Fit to be slaughtered, plundered, hated, scorned—
Belied in daily speech, and history.
Such thoughts and deeds have with those ages passed,
And nation knowing nation by the truth,—
By actual presence, and familiar words,
Spoken or written, will have eyes less prone
To see the red necessity of war,
Save as a brain-disease of knaves and fools,
Nor lend a ready ear to statesmen's tricks,
Hatching an insult or alarm of foes,
Dispersing thus at home men's active thoughts
O'er all their groaning needs and social wrongs.

THE SEA.
The shadows deepen as the sun departs,
And light sinks deeper with his higher rise:
So with man's mind as ignorance enfolds,
Or knowledge flows forth brighter and more wide;
Thus wouldst thou say—but what is man to me?

THE TELEGRAPH.
Thy fellow-being here; on thee dependent
For mighty aids—so far inferior;
Yet ranking higher in the eye of God:
The soul hath nobler elements than thine.

THE SEA.
Fear'st thou no tempest?—know'st thou not one swathe
Of my great waters can destroy thee?

THE TELEGRAPH.

THE SEA.
But despotism—
The bondmen and their masters—how of these?

THE TELEGRAPH.

THE SEA.
Hast thou of this one single sign secure—
One proof of general human brotherhood?
The peoples are as kings without their crowns.

THE TELEGRAPH.
None yet, indeed;—nor yet do I discern
What changes centuries may work in thee,—
Not in thine elements, but thy domain—
Its landward movements and its shifting depths,
Its creatures, and the fires beneath thy throne
Which may uplift thy frantic empery,
Dispersed amidst heaven's vapour; and ere this,
Man may by favour of thy constant tides
Find a new motive-power for works of peace.
Man needs more time—time ere he can attain
The reasonable pitch of present hopes,
The first fruition of his soul's desire.

THE SEA.
Can man, the creature of a day, look forth
Into the illimitable future?—

THE TELEGRAPH.
No:—
But man is born with an aspiring sense
That seeks invisible shores.

THE SEA.
Through Death's long night!

THE TELEGRAPH.
O, spiritual morning of the world,
When wilt thou dawn?—The shadows of all life
Lie thick around the paths of destiny;
The burthens, and the wounds, and waste of toil,
The inward-bleeding tears of the tried heart,
The steady purpose, and the anguished end,
The will unconquered, but old age compelled
To stand up in his grave, and presently
To lie down, and become, in turn, mere soil
For other graves,—all this must surely be.
Yet, none the less, as constant victories prove,
Shall man's predominant transilient race
Toil on, believing something great in store,
Since nothing retrogrades, and nought is lost.

THE SEA.