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 stillIn one broad scene of vision, tillThat moment when I mutely bentO'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 boreTheir plumèd heads—till on the shoreEach thundered, and was known no more.But still where'er the glancing eyeSpans 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 moodSo gentle, smiling, and subdued,That scarcely might a streamlet lieMore 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 stoodThe 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 setAlone on thy dark waters, yetAnd but for one small sacred arkHad found no living thing to markThis world, as from her sister earthCalled into being ere their birth!

 'Tis past! Thy billowy pride no moreMay 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!