The Reliquary By Bernard and Lucy Barton. With A Prefatory Appeal for Poetry and Poets |
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| II. |
TO E. H.
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 | The Reliquary |  |
TO E. H.
WRITTEN AT THE SEA-SIDE.
I cannot tune my humble lyre for thee,
Or bind with broken rhyme the “ever-free;”
Too deep within my heart its beauties live,
And nought but silence has my muse to give.
Or bind with broken rhyme the “ever-free;”
Too deep within my heart its beauties live,
And nought but silence has my muse to give.
For, ocean, who shall sing thee in thy might
When in thy robe of terror, storm-bedight;
Thy foaming billows lash with surge the shore,
And seamen find a grave beneath thy dread uproar.
When in thy robe of terror, storm-bedight;
Thy foaming billows lash with surge the shore,
And seamen find a grave beneath thy dread uproar.
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What harp of light, by fairy fingers played,
Shall sing of thee, in morning light arrayed?
Thy girdle, foam wreaths white; whose sunny gleams
Over thy pearly bosom dart their beams.
Shall sing of thee, in morning light arrayed?
Thy girdle, foam wreaths white; whose sunny gleams
Over thy pearly bosom dart their beams.
And who can paint thee in thy stillness beaming,
When moonlight over thee is softly gleaming?
Oh earth-born passion ne'er should quench the fire
Of hearts who dare thus boldly tune their lyre.
When moonlight over thee is softly gleaming?
Oh earth-born passion ne'er should quench the fire
Of hearts who dare thus boldly tune their lyre.
Then ask me not, dear friend, to sing to thee
Of ocean dread, the untameable, the free!
Turn thee to memory's tablet, thou wilt find,
Sweet echoes of its music, there enshrin'd.
Of ocean dread, the untameable, the free!
Turn thee to memory's tablet, thou wilt find,
Sweet echoes of its music, there enshrin'd.
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