He crawls to the cliff and plays on a brinkWhere every eye but his own would shrink;No music he hears but the billow's noise,And shells and weeds are his only toys.No lullaby can the mother findTo sing him to rest like the moaning wind;And the louder it wails and the fiercer it sweeps,The deeper he breathes and the sounder he sleeps.
And now his wandering feet can reachThe rugged tracks of the desolate beach;Creeping about like a Triton imp,To find the haunts of the crab and shrimp.He climbs, with none to guide or help,To the furthest ridge of slippery kelp;And his bold heart glows while he stands and mocksThe seamew's cry on the jutting rocks.
Few years have waned—and now he standsBareheaded on the shelving sands;A boat is moor'd, but his young hands copeRight well with the twisted cable rope;He frees the craft, she kisses the tide;The boy has climb'd her beaten side:She drifts—she floats—he shouts with glee;His soul hath claim'd its right on the sea.
'Tis vain to tell him the howling breath.Rides over the waters with wreck and death!He'll say there's more of fear and painOn the plague-ridden earth than the storm-lash'd main.'Twould be as wise to spend thy powerIn trying to lure the bee from the flower,The lark from the sky, or the worm from the grave,As in weaning the sea-child from the wave.
