THE WAVE.

1823.

(SUGGESTED BY AN EARLY RECOLLECTION OF A BEAUTIFUL POEM BY SHELLEY, ENTITLED 'THE CLOUD.')

A BEING I take from the fountains that break

In the depths of the ocean sand,

And my form is curled through the yielding world

To freshen the living land.

And the sparkles I fling from my watery wing,

As it mounts to meet the day,

Are gems for the hair of the sea-girls fair

That rise on my shining way.

I pass by the place where the earth's cold race
Repose in silent cells;

And the lovely and lone have found a throne
On a heap of glittering shells.

I sing for hours to leaves and flowers
That never beheld the moon,

But sprinkle their sheen of gold and green
To thank my lingering tune.

I glide like a smile o'er the coral pile,

With the ocean snake entwined;

And sweep in my track the dolphin's back,
Leaving a light behind.

Bright wealth on my wings for a hundred kings

From the sea's blue mine I bring;

The loveliest glare that slumbers there

I waft like a waking thing,

While I strew the strands with diamond sands,

And to beauty a pearl I fling.

And every star on its cloud-built car

Beholds its dominion of light,

As I welcome each ray with a spark from the spray That trembles and shines all night.

I waft some skiff where an eye on the cliff

Looks fearfully o'er the foam,

And save from the deck of some beautiful wreck

The riches of those that roam.

While all that have being in water are seeing
Their crystal casements through;

As I dart where pride hath splashed and died,

And pain hath shrieked adieu;

Where fear hath gasped, where hope hath clasped,

And love when life was new.

The cloud on high, the wave of the sky,

I choose for my shadowy bride,

And she comes sometimes from her shoreless climes,

And kisses my trembling tide.

But like all that is fair, on earth or in air,
She dissolves in silent pain;

And weeps on my flood her silvery blood

That gushes in silent rain.

Then I turn from my bower of the fresh sea-flower,

Which an emerald lamp hangs o'er;

I moan farewell to my palace of shell,

Where the song-echo woke before—

And the night-spirits dim hear my last low hymn As I faint on the fading shore.

ON THE SICKNESS OF A CHILD.

A CHILLING fear pervades my breast

For thee, my stricken child!

The hope within me is repressed,

For death looks through my dream of rest, With aspect wan and wild.

A gloomy and a gathering fear,
A thought untold and deep,

My eyes perchance have scarce a tear,
But there are scenes full frequent here
That teach the heart to weep.

And mine hath wept, my blighted boy;
It weeps and trembles now,

To think how frail a thing is Joy,

When darkening doubts so soon destroy The graces of its brow.

Our hopes should have but humble wings,
When wealth must still be sought

In outward and unholy things,
Remote from the sublimer springs

Of feeling and of thought.

Spectre of Pride, art thou my own,

My little laughing child?

Whose voice was as a wakening tone,
That might have into music grown,
And made my spirit mild :

Teaching my step once more to wind
Through childhood's grassy way,
And bringing back my infant mind,
When life was a delight refined,
And time kept holiday.

Yes, yes, thou art my own, although
Thy song be tuned to sighs;
Thy dimples made to cradle woe,
Thy cheek's fair sunshine changed to snow,
And love hath left thine eyes.

Oh, yes, thou art my own-the leaf,
The budding of my tree;
A green delight, a blossom brief,
Whose promised glory ends in grief,
Like things that fade and flee.

A harmony within my ears,

A brightness round my brow,

A growing warmth through wintry years.
A star above my tide of tears-
All these to me wert thou!