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APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.
The armaments which thunderstrike 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 wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sublime-
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
For I was, as it were, a child of thee,
THE WINDS.-WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
YE winds, ye unseen currents of the air,
Softly ye played, a few brief hours ago;
O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow;
Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.
How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound;
Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might;
The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight.
Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight.
The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain,
To 'scape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain ;
The harvest field becomes a river's bed;
Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread.
Ye dart upon the deep; and straight is heard
A wilder roar; and men grow pale, and pray; Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird
Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray. See, to the breaking mast the sailor clings; Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, And take the mountain billow on your wings,
And pile the wreck of navies round the bay.
Why rage ye thus ?-no strife for liberty
Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through fear, Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free,
And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere:
THE WORTH OF WOMAN.
For ye where born in freedom where you blow?
Her isles where summer blossoms all the year.
O ye wild winds; a mightier Power than yours
In chains upon the shore of Europe lies;
Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes;
To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise.
Yet, Oh! when that wronged Spirit of our race
Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains, And leap in freedom from his prison-place,
Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, To waste the loveliness that time could spare, To fill the earth with woe, and blot her fair
Unconscious breast with blood from human veins.
But may he like the Spring-time come abroad,
Who crumbles Winter's gyves with gentle might,
Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light;
Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.
THE WORTH OF WOMAN-TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER.
HONORED be woman; she beams on the sight,
Man, on passion's stormy ocean,
Tossed by surges mountains high,
Spurns at reason's feeble cry.
Louder still it roars within;
Stuns him life's incessant din.
Woman invites him with bliss in her smile,
Man, with fury, stern and sayage,
Persecutes his brother man,
Action, action, still his plan.
Ever seeking, ne'er enjoying,
Woman, contented in silent repose,
Coldly to himself sufficing,
Man disdains the gentle arts,
From the interchange of hearts.
Flows the genial current ou,
It iş hardened into stone.
She, like the barp that instinctively rings,
Through the range of man's dominion,
Terror is the ruling word,
Is the temper of the sword.
From the scene despairing flies,
Brother upon brother dies.
Woman commands with a milder control,
TRUE NOBILITY.-CHARLES SWAIN.
WHAT is noble? To inherit
Wealth, estate, and proud degree?
Higher yet than these for me!
Into life's majestic span,
True nobility in man!
What is noble ? 'Tis the finer
Portion of our Mind and Heart;
Than mere language can impart: