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My life is like a stroll upon the beach,
My tardy steps its waves sometimes o'erreach,
My sole employment 'tis, and scrupulous care
Each smoother pebble and each shell more rare,
I have but few companions on the shore,
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea;
Yet oft I think the ocean they 've sailed o'er,
The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,
Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,
And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.
H. D. Thoread.
The sad rhyme of the men mho proudly clung
Over the sea our galleys went,
A gallant armament:
Left leafy and rough as first it grew,
But each upbore a stately tent;
Might pierce the regal tenement,
When the sun dawn'd, oh, gay and glad
Lay stretch'd along, each weary crew
And with light and perfume, music too:
One morn, the land appear'd ! — a speck
Avoid it, cried our pilot, check
The shout, restrain the longing eye!
But the heaving sea was black behind
For many a night and many a day,
And land, though but a rock, was nigh;
So we broke the cedar pales away,
Let the purple awning flap in the wind,
We shouted, every man of us,
And steered right into the harbor thus,
With pomp and pa?an glorious.
An hundred shapes of lucid stone!
All day we built a shrine for each —
We sate together on the beach
'Like cloudlets faint at even sleeping, Our temple-gates are open'd wide,
Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping
Yet we called out —' Depart!
TO MY COMPANIONS.
Ye heavy-hearted mariners
Who sail this shore,
Sitting at the sweeping oar,
From out your dreariness,
From your heart-weariness,
I speak, for I am yours
On these gray shores.
Nay, nay, I know not, Mariners,
What cliffs these are,
And sadly round us bar;
And hath secure dominion
Over our stern oblivion,
But see no path thereout
To free from doubt.