The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems

Where lies the land to which yon Ship must go? Festively she puts forth in trim array, And vigorous, at a lark at break of day,—— ——Is she for summer suns, or polar snow?
EDINBURGH: PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, LONDON; JOHN BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, EDINBURGH; AND JOHN SMITH AND SON, GLASGOW. 1812.
TO GEORGE JARDINE, Esq. PROFESSOR OF LOGIC, AND TO JOHN YOUNG, Esq. PROFESSOR OF THE GREEK LANGUAGE, IN THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR.



It is the midnight hour:—the beauteous Sea, Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses, While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, Far down within the watery sky reposes. As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'd With inward life, a sound is heard, Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep; 'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, That lies like a garment floating fair Above the happy Deep. The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd By evening freshness from the land, For the land it is far away; But God hath will'd that the sky-born breeze In the centre of the loneliest seas Should ever sport and play. The mighty Moon she sits above, Encircled with a zone of love, A zone of dim and tender light That makes her wakeful eye more bright: She seems to shine with a sunny ray, And the night looks like a mellow'd day! The gracious Mistress of the Main Hath now an undisturbed reign, And from her silent throne looks down, As upon children of her own, On the waves that lend their gentle breast In gladness for her couch of rest!
My spirit sleeps amid the calm The sleep of a new delight; And hopes that she ne'er may awake again, But for ever hang o'er the lovely main, And adore the lovely night. Scarce conscious of an earthly frame, She glides away like a lambent flame, And in her bliss she sings; Now touching softly the Ocean's breast, Now mid the stars she lies at rest, As if she sail'd on wings! Now bold as the brightest star that glows More brightly since at first it rose, Looks down on the far-off flood, And there all breathless and alone, As the sky where she soars were a world of her own, She mocketh the gentle Mighty One As he lies in his quiet mood. Art thou, she breathes, the Tyrant grim That scoffs at human prayers, Answering with prouder roaring the while, As it rises from some lonely isle, Through groans raised wild, the hopeless hymn Of shipwreck'd mariners? Oh! Thou art harmless as a child Weary with joy, and reconciled For sleep to change its play; And now that night hath stay'd thy race, Smiles wander o'er thy placid face As if thy dreams were gay. —