I saw, I heard,--yet in my heart The cloud, the cliff, the billow seemed As of myself an imaged part,-- Things I had seen, or oft had dreamed; And in my ear, the thundering tide Was music, and the ocean's moan An echo of my spirit, wide As the wave, and stormy as its own. XI. "So passed my morning dreams away, Like birds that shun a wintry cloud, And phantom visions, grim and gray, Came mist-like from the watery shroud: Prophetic visions of the deep, Emblems of those within the breast, Which, summoned from their shadowy sleep, Ride on the storm by passion pressed! In ghastly shapes they rose to view, All gibbering from their crystal caves, As if some horrid mirth they drew From the wild uproar of the waves. With beckoning hands they seemed to urge My footsteps down the dizzy way, To join their train upon the surge, And dance with them amidst the spray: And such the madness of my brain, That I was fain to seek the throng; To meet and mingle on the main, With their mad revelry and song. One step, and down the dizzy cliff, My form had to the waters swung, But gliding in a wreathy skiff, That o'er the crested billows hung, A white form like my mother seemed To shine a moment on my eye;-- With warning look the vision gleamed, Then vanished upward to the sky! XII. "I left the thundering tide, and sought Once more the mountain and the stream; But long the wrestling ocean wrought Within my bosom: as a dream My boyhood vanished, and I woke Startled to manhood's early morn; No father's hand my pride to yoke, No mother's angel voice to warn. No,--and the gentle vision, lost, That once could curb my wayward will, And lull my bosom passion-tossed, With one soft whisper, "Peace, be still!"-- That vision, spurned by manhood's pride, Came down from heaven to me no more, And I was launched without a guide, To be a wreck on passion's shore. Alas! the giddy bark at sea, 'Mid waves that woo it down to death, From helm and compass wafted free, The toy of every tempest's breath,-- Is but a type of him who goes, Trusting to nature, on the tide Of life, where breezy passion blows, To whelm the adventurer in his pride. Yes, for the smoothest lake hath waves Within its bosom, which will rise And revel when the tempest raves; The cloud will come o'er gentlest skies; And not a favored spot on earth, The furrowing ploughman finds, but there The rank and ready weeds have birth, Sown by the winds to mock his care. 'Tis thus with every human heart; The seeds of ill are scattered wide, And flaunting flowers of vice will start Thick o'er the soil they seek to hide. Aye, and the gentleness of youth,