Poems for the Sea/To the Ocean
TO THE OCEAN
Ah! let me be thy pupil, mighty Deep!
Yet speak thou gently to me, for I fear
Thy voice of terror, nor desire to learn
Those lessons that do make the mariner
Shrink in his dreams.
My Mother Earth imparts
An easier lore. She talketh of her sons.
Her level'd mountains, and her corn-clad vales,
Town, tower, and temple, and triumphal arch,
All speak of man, and moulder while they speak.
But, of whose architecture, and design,
Tell thine eternal fountains, when they rise
To combat with the clouds, or when they fall?
Of whose strong culture, speak thy sunless plants?
And groves of coral, which no mortal guest
Hath visited, and liv'd?
What sculptor wrought
These monuments of amber, and of pearl,
Where sleeps the sea-boy, in a pomp, that earth
Denies her buried kings?
Who strangely stretch'd
A line of sand to curb thy monstrous tide,
And writing "Hitherto!"—bade the mad surge
Respect the silent mandate?
From whose loom
Came forth thy drapery, that ne'er waxeth old?
No fallen leaf, or withering floweret marks
Thy sere decadence of autumnal time.
Who hath thy keys, Oh Deep? Who taketh note
Of all thy wealth? Who numbereth the host
That spread their tent amid thy cells, and sleep
Unwaken'd, unreturning? Who doth scan
The secret annal, from Creation lock'd
In thy dark cabinet?
Still, one reply!
Each breaking billow speaks that One Dread Name
Which he, who deepest graves within his heart
Is wisest, though the world may call him fool.
Therefore, I bend to thy resounding tides,
And list the echo of thy countless waves,
A lone disciple,—if perchance, my soul
That poor shell-gatherer, on the shores of time,
May by thy lore instructed, learn of God.