Stormy wind fulfilling His word."-Psalm cxlviii. 8.
LOVED to walk where none had walked before,
About the rocks that ran along the shore ;
Or far beyond the sight of men to stray,
And take my pleasure when I lost my way.
For then 'twas mine to trace the hilly heath,
And all the mossy moor that lies beneath.
Here had I favourite stations where I stood
And heard the murmurs of the ocean flood,
With not a sound beside, except when flew
Aloft, the lapwing, or the grey curlew,
Who with wild notes my fancied power defied,
And mocked the dreams of solitary pride.
I loved to stop at every creek and bay
Made by the river in its winding way,
And call to memory-not by marks they bare,
But by the thoughts that were created there.
Pleasant it was to view the sea-gulls strive
Against the storm, or in the ocean dive,
With eager scream; or when they dropping gave
Their closing wings to sail upon the wave:
Then, as the winds and waters raged around,
And breaking billows mixed their deafening sound,
They on the rolling deep securely hung,
And calmly rode the restless waves among.
Nor pleased it less around me to behold
Far up the beach, the yeasty sea-foam rolled;
Or, from the shore upborne, to see on high
Its frothy flakes in wild confusion fly.
View now the Winter storm! above, one cloud,
Black and unbroken, all the clouds o'ershroud.
All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam,
The breaking billows cast the flying foam
Upon the billows rising, all the deep
Is restless change; the waves so swelled and steep,
Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells,
Nor one, one moment in its station dwells:
But nearer land you may the billows trace,
As if contending in their watery chase;
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach,
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch;
Curled as they come, they strike with furious force,
And then re-flowing, take their grating course,
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past
Rolled by their rage, and shall while ages last.
Far off the petrel, in the troubled way,
Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray ;
She rises often, often drops again,
And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.
In-shore, their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge,
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge;
Oft in the rough opposing blasts they fly
Far back, then turn, and all their force apply,
While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry; Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast,
And in the restless ocean dip for rest.
FESTAL Spring! midst thy victorious glow,
Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains,
And streams that bound to meet thee from their chains,
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe
For human hearts, and in the exulting flow
Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone,
Were we of mould all earthly, we alone,
Severed from thy great spell, and doomed to go
Farther, still farther, from our sunny time,
Never to feel the breathings of our prime,
Never to flower again! But we, O Spring!
Cheered by deep spirit-whispers not of earth,
Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth,
As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and sing.
HE cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green fields sleep in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!
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