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Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright,
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm, to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I startling wake, to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.

Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,
And the rich blood that is in thee, swells in thy indignant pain;
Till careless eyes that rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Will they ill use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be—
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free.
And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?

Return, alas! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do,

When thou, who wert his all of joy, hath vanish'd from his view;

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering

Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage appears?
Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary foot alone,
Where with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on.
And sitting down by that green well, I 'll pause and sadly think,
It was here he bow'd his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink.

When last I saw thee drink? Away! the fever'd dream is o'er,
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more.
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long!
Who said that I had given thee up, who said that thou wert sold?
'Tis false, 'tis false, my Arab steed, I fling them back their gold:
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,
Away! who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for his pains.



Waste treasure like water, ye noble and great!

Spend the wealth of the world to increase your estate;

Pile up your temples of marble, and raise

Columns and domes, that the people may gaze

And wonder at beauty, so gorgeously shown

By subjects more rich than the king on his throne.

Lavish and squander—for why should you save

"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave t"

Pour wine into goblets, all crusted with gems —

Wear pearls on your collars and pearls on your hems;

Let diamonds in splendid profusion outvie

The myriad stars of a tropical sky!

Though from the night of the fathomless mine

These may be dug at your banquet to shine,

Little care ye for the chains of the slave,

"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave."

Behold, at your gates stand the feeble and old;
Let them burn in the sunshine and freeze in the cold:
Let them starve; though a morsel, a drop will impart
New vigor and warmth to the limb and the heart:
You taste not their anguish, you feel not their pain,
Your heads are not bare to the wind and the rain—
Must wretches like these of your charity crave
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave 1"

An army goes out in the morn's early light,
Ten thousand gay soldiers equipp'd for the fight;
An army comes home at the closing of day,
O, where are their banners, their goodly array 1

Ye widows and orphans, bewail not so loud—
Your groans may embitter the feast of the proud;
To win for their store, did the wild battle rave,
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave."

Gold! gold! in all ages the curse of mankind,
Thy fetters are forged for the soul and the mind:
The limbs may be free as the wings of a bird,
And the mind he the slave of a look and a word.
To gain thee, men barter eternity's crown,
Yield honor, affection, and lasting renown,
And mingle like foam with life's swift-rushing wave,
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave."



Deep in the wave is a coral grove

Where the purple mullet and gold fish rove,

Where the sea-flower spreads it leaves of blue,

That never are wet with falling dew,

But in bright and changeful beauty shine

Far down in the green and glassy brine.

The floor is of sand like the mountain drift,

And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea-plants lift,

Their boughs, when the tides and the billows flow; The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow,

In the motionless fields of upper air; Then with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen,

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter.

There with a slight and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean,

Are hending like corn upon the upland lea.
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone:
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,

Has made the top of the waves his own.
And when the ship from his fury flies,

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,

And demons are waiting the wreck on shore.
Then far below in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove;
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,

Through the bended twigs of the coral grove.



There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews; in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal.

Boll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll 1
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control
Stops with thy shore; — upon the watery plain

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own;
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown!

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise,
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields,
For earth-s destruction, thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hopes in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay.

The armaments which thunder-strike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals —
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war —
These are thy toys; and as the snowy flake
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee —
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage! their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts: — not so thou
Unchangeable save to thy wide waves' play —
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow —
Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now!

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