The Portland daily press., 1874-07-20
POETRY.
A Sea Dream.
BY J. G. WHITTIER.

We saw the SLOW tides go and come,
The curving surf-lines lightly drawn,
The gray rocks touched with tender bloom
Beneath the fresh-blown rose of dawn.
We saw in richer sunsets lost
The sombre pomp of showery Moons;
And sgnalled spectral sails that crossed
The weird, low light of sea-born moons
On stormy ewes from cliff and head
We saw The white spray tossed and spurned
While, over all, in god and red,
lis face Of fire the lighthouse turned.
The rai-car brought its daily crowds;
Half curious, halt Indifferent,
Ii passing sails or floating clouds,
We saw them as they came and went.
But one calm morning, as we lay
And watched the mirage-lifted wall
Of coast across the dreamy bay,
And heard afar the curfew call,
And nearer voices, wild or tame,
OF airy flock and childish throng,
Up from the waters edge there came
Faint snatches Of familiar song.
Careless, we heard the singers choice
Of old nd common airs; at last
T Ie tender pathos of his voice
In one low chanson held us fast.
a song Itldt 0llDgitu JOY anu
And memories old and sadly sweet;
While timing to its minor strain,
The waves in lapsing cadence beat.
The waves are glad in breeze and sun,
The rocks are iringed with foam;
walk once more a haunted shore,
A stranger, yet at home
land of dreams L r0am
Is this the wind, the soft sea-wind
That stirred thy locks of brown?
Are these the rocks whose MOSES knew
The trail of thy light gown
Where boy and girl sat down?
/ see the gray forts broken wall,
The boats that rock below;
And, out OF sea, the passing sails
We saw so long ago,
Rose-red in mornings glow.
The freshness of the early time
On every breeze is blown:
As glad the sea, as blue the sky,
The change is ours alone;
The saddest is my own!
A stranger now, world-worn man
Is he who bears my name;
But thon, methiDks, whose mortal life
Immortal youth became,
Art evermore the same.
Thou art not here, thou art not there,
Thy place cannot see;
only know that where thou art
The blessed angels be,
And heaven Is glad for thee.
Forgive me, if the evil years
Have left on me their sign;
Wash ont, o soul so beautiful,
The manv stains of mine
In tears of love divine!
o turn to me that dearest face
OF all thy sea-born town,
The welded roses of thy lips,
Thy loose hair ripping down
In waves Of golden brown!
Look forth once more through space and time,
And let thy sweet shade fall
In 'enderest grace OF soul and form
On memory frescoed wall,
A shadow, and yet all!
Draw near, more near, forever dear!
Where'er rest or roam,
Or in the crowded city streets
Or by the blown sea-foam,
The thought of thee is home!
At breakfast hour the singer read
The city news, with comment wise,
Like one who felt the pulse nf trade
Beneath his fingers fall and rise.
His look. his air, his curt speech told
The man of action, not of books,
To whom the corners made in gold
And stocks were more than seaside hooks.
OF life beneath the life confessed
His song had limited unawares;
OF flowers in traffic's ledgers pressed,
Of human hearts in Bulls and Bears
But Eyes in vain were turned to watch
That face % hard ami shrewd and strong;
An ears IN vain grew sharp to catch
The meaning of that morning song.
In vain some sweet-voiced queri~t sought
TO sound him, leaving as she came;
Her bated album only clughr
A common, unromantic name.
No word betrayed the mystery fine
That trembled on the singers tongue;
He came and went, and left no sign
Behind him save the song he sung.
atlantic Monehiy for August.