Is it not better here to be, Than to be toiling late and soon? In the dreary night to see Nothing but the blood-red moon Go up and down into the sea; Or, in the loneliness of day, To see the still seals only Solemnly lift their faces gray, Making it yet more lonely? Is it not better, than to hear Only the sliding of the wave Beneath the plank, and feel so near A cold and lonely grave, A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Even in death unquietly? Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the sidelong shark Upturnèd patiently, Ever waiting there for thee: Look down and see those shapeless forms, Which ever keep their dreamless sleep Far down within the gloomy deep, And only stir themselves in storms, Rising like islands from beneath, And snorting through the angry spray, As the frail vessel perisheth In the whirls of their unwieldy play; Look down! Look down! Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, That waves its arms so lank and brown, Beckoning for thee! Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Into the cold depth of the sea! Look down! Look down! Thus on Life's lonely sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sad, from far and near, Ever singing full of fear, Ever singing drearfully. Here all is pleasant as a dream; The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, The green grass floweth like a stream Into the ocean's blue; Listen! O, listen! Here is a gush of many streams, A song of many birds, And every wish and longing seems Lulled to a numbered flow of words,-- Listen! O, listen! Here ever hum the golden bees Underneath full-blossomed trees, At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned;-- The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land All around with a slumberous sound, The singing waves slide up the strand, And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, The waters gurgle longingly, As if they fain would seek the shore, To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, To be at rest forevermore,-- Forevermore. Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, from far and near, Ever singing in his ear, "Here is rest and peace for thee." |Nantasket|, _July, 1840._ IRENÉ. Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear, Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, Free without boldness, meek without a fear, Quicker to look than speak its sympathies; Far down into her large and patient eyes I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, I look into the fathomless blue skies.