« EelmineJätka »
Then seemeth this earth, with its joys and fears,
There is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreathed with mine alone,
At once must sever both or none.
There is a form on which these eyes
Have often gazed with fond delight;
And dreams restore it through the night.
There is a voice whose tones inspire
Such thrills of rapture through my breast;
Unless that voice could join the rest.
There is a face whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek; But pallid at one fond farewell,
Proclaims more love than words can speak.
There is a lip which mine hath prest,
And none had ever prest before, It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
And mine-mine only, prest it more.
There is a bosom—all my own
Hath pillowed oft this aching head: A mouth which smiles on me alone,
An eye whose tears with mine are shed.
There are two hearts whose movements thrill
In unison so closely sweet !
They both must heave-or cease to beat.
There are two souls whose equal flow,
In gentle streams so calmly run,
Byron ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar :
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From all I may be, or have been before,
Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean, roll !
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore ;-upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And howling to his Gods, where haply lies
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee and arbiter of war ;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
realms to deserts ;- not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle in thine azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where th' Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time,
Icing the pole ; or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of eternity—the throne
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror 'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,