Page:Poems Cook.djvu/322

Who is he that dares to touch me,
 With a gripe so strong and bold!
Tis the sailor, young and brave,
Struggling o'er his yawning grave.
Does he think that he can cling
To the Sea-weed's mazy string?
Does he dream, with frenzied hope,
Of floating spar and saving rope?
He does, he does! but billows meet,
And form his close-wrapp'd winding-sheet;
While I mingle with the wreath
Of white foam gurgling through his teeth,
And twist and tangle in his locks;
 As the mountain waters lift him,
 And the frothy breakers drift him,
On the gray and iron rocks.

Again I mount my ocean steed,
 Rolling on with curbless pace;
Who will follow where I lead?
 Who will ride in such a race?
On I rush by raft and wreck,
By sinking keel and parting deck;
Now the lifeboat's side I'm lashing;
Now against the torn plank dashing;
Up I go—the flood is swelling
With richer foam and fiercer yelling—
My courser rears, and I am thrown
Upon the lighthouse topmost stone.
Rave on, ye waters—here I'll stay
Till storm and strife have pass'd away!

 

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Now I have taken my course to the shore,
 Where yellow sand covers the crystal and amber;
Serenely I dwell with the rosy-mouth'd shell,
 Where limpets are thick and the tiny crabs clamber.

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