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And lures thee not the clear deep heaven

Within the waters blue —
And thy form so fair, so mirrored there

In that eternal dew!'

The water rolled — the water swelled,

It reached his naked feet;
He felt, as at his love's approach,

His bounding bosom beat;
She spake to him, she sang to him,

His short suspense is o'er;
Half drew she him, half dropped he in,

And sank to rise no more.

From the German of Goethe.


The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary,
The sea is restless and uneasy;
Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary,
Wandering thou knowest not whither; —
Our little isle is green and breezy,
Come and rest thee! O, come hither!
Come to this peaceful home of ours,

Where evermore
The low west wind creeps panting up the shore
To be at rest among the flowers;


Full of rest, the green moss lifts,
As the dark waves of the sea
Draw in and out of rocky rifts,

Calling solemnly to thee
With voices deep and hollow ; —
'To the shore
Follow! O, follow!
To be at rest for evermore!
For evermore!'

Look how the grey, old Ocean
From the depth of his heart rejoices,
Heaving with a gentle motion,
When he hears our restful voices;
List how he sings in an undertone,
Chiming with our melody;
And all sweet sounds of earth and air
Melt into one low voice alone,
That murmurs over the weary sea,
And seems to sing from everywhere, —
'Here mayest thou harbor peacefully,
Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar

Turn thy curved prow ashore,
And in our green isle rest for evermore!

For evermore!'
And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill,

And, to her heart so calm and deep,

Murmurs over in her sleep, Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, 'Evermore!'

Thus, on Life's weary sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing low and clear,
Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be, ,
Than to be toiling late and soon?
In the dreary night to see
Nothing but the blood-red moon
Go up and down into the sea;
Or, in the loneliness of day,

To see the still seals only
Solemnly lift their faces grey,

Making it yet more lonely?
Is it not better, than to hear
Only the sliding of the wave
Beneath the plank, and feel so near
A cold and lonely grave,
A restless grave, where thou shalt lie
Even in death unquietly?
Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark,

Lean over the side and see
The leaden eye of the sidelong shark
Upturned patiently,

Ever waiting there for thee:
Look down and see those shapeless forms,

Which ever keep their dreamless sleep

Far down within the gloomy deep,
And only stir themselves in storms,
Rising like islands from beneath,
And snorting through the angry spray,
As the frail vessel perisheth
In the whirls of their unwieldy play;

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Look down! Look down!
Upon the sea-weed, slimy and dark,
That waves its arms so lank and brown,

Beckoning for thee!
Look down beneath thy wave-torn bark
Into the cold depth of the sea!
Look down! Look down!
Thus, on Life's lonely sea,
Heareth the marinere
Voices sad, from far and near,
Ever singing full of fear,
Ever singing drearfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream;
The wind scarce shaketh down the dew,
The green grass floweth like a stream
Into the ocean's blue;
Listen! O, listen!
Here is a gush of many streams,

A song of many birds,
And every wish and longing seems
Lulled to a numbered flow of words, —

Listen! O, listen!
Here ever hum the golden bees
Underneath full-blossomed trees,
At once with golden fruit and flowers crowned; —
The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand,
That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land;
All around, with a slumberous sound,
The singing waves slide up the strand,
And there, where the smooth wet pebbles be,
The waters gurgle longingly,

As if they fain would seek the shore,
To be at rest from the ceaseless roar,
To be at rest for evermore, —
For evermore.

Thus, on Life's gloomy sea,

Heareth the marinere

Voices sweet, from far and near,

Ever singing in his ear,

'Here is rest and peace for thee!'

J. R. Lowell.


By the shore, a plot of ground
Clips a ruined chapel round,
Buttressed with a grassy mound;

Where day and night and day go by,
And bring no touch of human sound.

Washing of the lonely seas,—
Shaking of the guardian trees, —
Piping of the salted breeze, —

And day and night and day go by,
To the endless tune of these.

Or when winds and waters keep
A hush more dead than any sleep,

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