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Original Poetry.
THE OCEAN'S OWN.
Calmly the pale Moon kissed the tide,
The sea-breeze on in silence swept;
No angry billow burst in pride,
But all in seeming stillness slept;
A night almost for each too fair,
We see not oft, it's likeness there.
I stood across our noble bay,
The light breeze fairly filled the sail;
All thoughts of Earth had passed away,
And memory e'en began to fail;
A calm oblivion all o'erspread,
And as in slumber bowed the head.
A change came o'er my spirits dream,
I laid upon the open wave;
There was no light, no fitfull gleam,
No voice to guide, no hand to save;
And dark the Sea, and dark the Sky,
In mingled chaos, seemed to lie.
But list, I heard a rushing sound,
A livid light is flashing o'er;
I raised my head, lo! all around,
No eye beheld that sight before;
A countless fleet, on, on, they came,
Of every Nation, Age, and Name.
I knew them by the batter'd hull,
And by the sea-weed shackled mast;
The varied ensign floating dull,
As on in dark array they past;
I knew them for old Ocean's own,
Though once they were of Earth alone.
There lay the galley barque of Rome,
The Argosy of ancient Spain;
All that have never found a home,
Excepting in the dreary main;
There swept the stately ship of war,
Whose battle shout shall sound no more.
There came the frigate in her pride,
The red blood gushed from either tier;
And swiftly sailing by her side,
The long, low, fierce, black, Buccaneer
With mutter'd oath and curses hoarse,
At every yard-arm, swung a corse.
There lay the battle-blasted bark,
Where fire's ravages had told;
And crowding by her bulwarks dark,
The forms that once were stern and bold;
Their bony fingers grasp the gun,
And o'er the rotting cordage run.
The famine-perished too, were there,
In every hand a human bone;
In every skull, by time worn bare,
The mocking sea-worm reigned alone;
Across the broken deck they strode,
Grim tenants of a foul abode.
And there the Demon slaver lay,
Her very scuppers running blood,
She founder'd in the rescue fray,
The fiend and victim in the flood;
High o'er her Spanish flag was borne,
Britannia's Banner, battle torn.
On, on, they came in mighty line,
A hundred, hundred, thousand sail;
As countless as the mountain pine,
To follow them the eye must fail.
On, on, they came, a ghastly band,
At every helm a spectre hand.
On, on, they swept, but fading fast,
Still, still, more indistinct they grew;
The sinking sail, the falling mast,
As all to their dark haven drew;
And loud arose an angry moan,
As Ocean gathered back her own.
In terror on my feet I sprung,
Right in the Moon's pale wake I lay;
Still in my ear the thunder rung,
Yet all was silence in the bay;
Save only that a brisker gale,
Was rumbling in my tiny sail.
And as I turned my head to home,
I cast an anxious look behind;
Expecting in each burst of foam,
Some spectre follower to find—
Still as I held my way alone,
I thought upon the Ocean's Own.
EPSILON.
February 11, 1836.
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