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POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA.
What is there more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-surrounding, unfathomable sea ? What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm, gently-heaving, silent sea ? What is there more terribly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming sea ? Power-resistless, overwhelming poweris its attribute and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious
grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. It is awful when its crested waves rise up to make a compact with the black clouds and the howling winds, and the thunder and the thunderbolt, and they sweep on, in the joy of their dread alliance, to do the Almighty's bidding. And it is awful, too, when it stretches its broad level out to meet in quiet union the bended sky, and show in the line of meeting the vast rotundity of the world. There is majesty in its wide expanse, separating and enclosing the great continents of the earth, occupying twothirds of the whole surface of the globe, penetrating the land with its bays and secondary seas, and receiving the constantly-pouring tribute of every river, of every shore. There is majesty in its fulness, never diminishing and never increasing. There is majesty in its integrity,- for its whole vast substance is uniform in its local unity, for there is but one ocean, ani the inhabitants of any one maritime spot may visit the inhabitants of any other in the wide world. Its depth is sublime: who can sound it? Its
POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 177
strength is sublime: what fabric of man can resist it? Its voice is sublime, whether in the prolonged song of its ripple or the stern music of its roar, whether it utters its hollow and melancholy tones within a labyrinth of wave-worn caves, or thunders at the base of some huge promontory, or beats against a toiling vessel's sides, lulling the voyager to rest with the strains of its wild monotony, or dies away, in the calm and fading twilight, in gentle murmurs on some sheltered shore. The sea possesses beauty, in richness, of its own; it borrows it from earth, and air, and heaven. The clouds lend it the various dyes of their wardrobe, and throw down upon it the broad masses of their shadows as they go sailing and sweeping by. The rainbow laves in it its many-colored feet. The sun loves to visit it, and the moon and the glittering brotherhood of planets and stars, for they delight themselves in its beauty. The sunbeams return from it in showers of diamonds and glances of fire; the moonbeams find in it a pathway of silver, where they dance to and fro, with the breezes and the waves, through the livelong night. It has a light, too, of its own,-a soft and sparkling light, rivaling the stars; and often does the ship which cuts its surface leave streaming behind a Milky Way of dim and uncertain lustre, like that which is shining dimly above. It harmonizes in its forms and sounds both with the night and the day. It cheerfully reflects the light, and it unites solemnly with the darkness. It imparts sweetness to the music of men, and grandeur to the thunder of heaven. What landscape is so beautiful as one upon the borders of the sea? The spirit of its loveliness is from the waters where it dwells and rests, singing its spells and scattering its charms on all the coasts. What rocks and cliffs are so glorious as those which are washed by the chafing sea? What groves and fields and dwellings are so enchanting as those which stand by the reflecting sea 7 There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its depths. It is unfathomed, and, perhaps, unfathomable. Who can tell, who shall know, how near its pits run down to the central core of the world 2 Who can tell what wells, what fountains, are there, to which the fountains of the earth are but drops? Who shall say whence the ocean derives those inexhaustible supplies of salt which so impregnate its waters that all the rivers of the earth, pouring into it from the time of the creation, have not been able to freshen them? What undescribed monsters, what unimaginable shapes, may be roving in the profoundest places of the sea, never seeking—and perhaps never able to seek—the upper waters and expose themselves to the gaze of man! What glittering riches, what heaps of gold, what stores of gems, there must be scattered in lavish profusion in
178 POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA.
the ocean's lowest bed! What spoils from all climates, what works of art from all lands, have been engulfed by the insatiable and reckless waves | Who shall go down to examine and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth? Who bears the keys of the deep? And oh! yet more affecting to the heart and mysterious to the mind, what companies of human beings are locked up in that wide, weltering, unsearchable grave of the sea! Where are the bodies of those lost ones over whom the melancholy waves alone have been chanting requiem 7
CLIFFS BY THE SEA.
What shrouds were wrapped round the limbs of beauty, and of manhood, and of placid infancy, when they were laid on the dark floor of that secret tomb 2. Where are the bones, the relics, of the brave and the timid, the good and the bad, the parent, the child, the wife, the husband, the brother, the sister, the lover, which have been tossed and scattered and buried by the washing, wasting, wandering sea? The journeying winds may sigh as year after year they pass over their beds. The solitary rain-cloud may weep in darknesss over the mingled remains which lie strewed in that unwonted cemetery. But who shall tell the bereaved to what spot their affections may cling? And where shall human tears be shed throughout
that solemn sepulchre ? It is mystery all. When shall it be resolved ? Who shall find it out? Who but He to whom the wildest waves listen reverently, and to whom all nature bows; He who shall one day speak, and be heard in ocean's profoundest caves; to whom the deep, even the lowest deep, shall give up its dead; when the sun shall sicken, and the earth and the isles shall languish, and the heavens be rolled together like a scroll, and there shall be NO MORE sea !
A FIRST SORROW.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR.
Stretch out thy trembling hands
To-day for thine!
To each anointed priest
God's summons came :
O Soul, he speaks to-day,
And calls thy name.
Then, with slow, reverent step,
And beating heart,
From out thy joyous days
Thou must depart,
And, leaving all behind,
Come forth alone,
To join the chosen band
Around the throne.
Raise up thine eyes—be strong,
Nor cast away
The crown that God has given
Thy soul to-day!
JAMES MONTGOMERY. YHERE is a land, of every land the | The wandering mariner, whose eye explores pride,
| The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world shores, beside,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, | Where brighter suns dispense serener Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air. I light,
In every clime, the magnet of his soul, And milder moons imparadise the night; Touched by remembrance, trembles to that A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
pole; Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race
INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH.
The heritage of nature's noblest grace, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. There is a spot of earth supremely blest, " Where shall that land, that spot of eartt A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
be found ?" Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside Art thou a man ?-a patriot ?-look around; His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, o, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps While in his softened looks benignly blend roam, The sire, the son, the husband, brother, That land thy country, and that spot th? friend.
home! Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Man, through all ages of revolving time, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of Unchanging man, in every varying clime life :
Deems his own land of every land the pride, In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; An angel-guard of love and graces lie; | His home the spot of earth supremely blest, Around her knees domestic duties meet, ! A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.
INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH.
DR. GEORGE BERKELEY.
SINDUSTRY is the natural sure way to success; this is so true, that it O is impossible an industrious free people should want the necessaries
and comforts of life, or an idle enjoy them under any form of govern
ment. Money is so far useful to the public, as it promoteth industry, and credit having the same effect, is of the same value with money; but money or credit circulating through a nation from hand to hand, without producing labor and industry in the inhabitants, is direct gaming.
It is not impossible for cunning men to make such plausible schemes, as may draw those who are less skilful into their own and the public ruin. But surely there is no man of sense and honesty but must see and own, whether he understands the game or not, that it is an evident folly for any people, instead of prosecuting the old honest methods of industry and frugality, to sit down to a public gaming-table and play off their money cne to another.
The more methods there are in a state for acquiring riches without industry or merit, the less there will be of either in that state: this is as evident as the ruin that attends it. Besides, when money is shifted from hand to hand in such a blind fortuitous manner, that some men shall from nothing acquire in an instant vast estates, without the least desert; while others are as suddenly stripped of plentiful fortunes, and left on the parish by their own avarice and credulity, what can be hoped for on the one