Golden Numbers Part 35

We shoot through the sparkling foam Like an ocean-bird set free;-- Like the ocean-bird, our home We'll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown; But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll say let the storm come down!

And the song of our hearts shall be, While the winds and the waters rave, A home on the rolling sea!

A life on the ocean wave.

EPES SARGENT.

[Footnote 14: _Harper's "Cyclopaedia of British and American Poetry."_]

_The Sea_

The sea! the sea! the open sea!

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh, how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the sou'west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame sh.o.r.e, But I loved the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was, and is, to me; For I was born on the open sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the ocean-child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, With wealth to spend, and power to range, But never have sought nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea!

BARRY CORNWALL.

(Bryan Waller Procter.)

_A Sea-Song_

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free-- The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; But hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free-- While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

_A Visit From the Sea_[15]

Far from the loud sea-beaches, Where he goes fishing and crying, Here in the inland garden, Why is the sea-gull flying?

Here are no fish to dive for: Here is the corn and lea; Here are the green trees rustling.

Hie away home to sea!

Fresh is the river water, And quiet among the rushes; This is no home for the sea-gull, But for the rooks and thrushes.

Pity the bird that has wandered!

Pity the sailor ash.o.r.e!

Hurry him home to the ocean, Let him come here no more!

High on the sea-cliff ledges The white gulls are trooping and crying; Here among rooks and roses, Why is the sea-gull flying?

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

[Footnote 15: _From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons._]

_Drifting_[16]

My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swings round the purple peaks remote:--

Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies,-- O'erveiled with vines She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gambolling with the gambolling kid, Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; This happier one,-- Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip!

O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more The worldly sh.o.r.e Upbraids me with its loud uproar: With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

[Footnote 16: _By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co._]