Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Sea-Shell

The Sea-Shell.

Upon a rock's extremes! verge, Round which the foaming billows beat,I sat and listened to the surge, Which threw its white spray o'er my feet.

Long, long I lingered, lost in thought, Still gazing on the boundless sea;In whose unceasing flow is wrought An emblem of eternity.

I gathered from the pebbled shore A shell, with rainbow beauties tinged;And home my ocean prize I bore, With many-coloured sea-weed fringed.

As to my listening ear I held The shining gem the billows gave,Within its fairy cavern swelled The mimic murmur of the wave.

Though distant far my footsteps strayed, Through shady grove or sunny plain,Still the fair cadence ever made An echo of the roaring main.

'Tis thus the agèd seaman dreams, When anchored in his tranquil home;In wandering fancy still he seems Through dark and stormy seas to roam.

He slumbers in a land of peace; He hears no more the water's strife;But faithful memory still will trace The dangers of his early life.