Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/To the Ocean

To the Ocean.

How oft enchanted have I stood,
Gazing on forest, field, and flood;
Or in the busy breathing vale,
With hamlet gemmed and turret pale;
Ne'er dreaming (till another hour)
That more of beauty, more of power,
Than earth, in stream, vale, wood, or tower,
Could boast her own, existed still
In one broad scene of vision, till
That moment when I mutely bent
O'er thee, imperial Element!

I saw them, and in shade or sun,
Thy armies of dark waves roll on;
In fierceness and in strength they bore
Their plumèd heads—till on the shore
Each thundered, and was known no more.
But still where'er the glancing eye
Spans the wide sweep of shore and sky,
Yet other hosts are gathering near,
Yet other hills of foam appear;
And onward o'er the deep they roar,
To seek their brethren on the shore—
Like them to thunder, and be seen no more!

Yet once I saw thee in a mood
So gentle, smiling, and subdued,
That scarcely might a streamlet lie
More calm beneath a summer's sky;
The winds were sleeping on thy breast,
Thy distant billows were at rest;
And every breaker (fierce no more),
Just sparkled, and then kissed the shore;
While heaven's arched brow was azure bright,
And all its watchers shone that night;
And where thy waters seemed to swell,
A meek and trembling radiance fell,
For like a virgin-spirit stood
The crescent moon above thy flood.
And snowing clouds around her stole,
Like dreams upon a youthful soul!

Who then that saw thee, giant king!
So silent and so slumbering,
Had dreamt that once thy waters ran,
O'erwhelming every haunt of man;
That sun and star long rose and set
Alone on thy dark waters, yet
And but for one small sacred ark
Had found no living thing to mark
This world, as from her sister earth
Called into being ere their birth!

'Tis past! Thy billowy pride no more
May sweep beyond the girdling shore!
'Tis past! Thy mountain waves still rage,
But at thy Maker's word assuage;
And meek and trembling as a child,
At His command art thou, the wonderful, the wild!