September 9.
The Season.
At this period of the year the fashionable people of unfashionable times were accustomed to close their sojournments on the coasts, and commence their inland retreats before they “came to town for good.” In this respect manners are altered. The salubrity of the ocean-breeze is now courted, and many families, in defiance of gales and storms, spend the greater part of the winter at the southern watering places. The increase of this remarkable deviation deserves to be noticed, as a growing accommodation to the purposes of life.
A literary gentleman on his arrival from viewing the world of waters, obliges the editor with some original flowings from his pen, so fresh and beautiful, that they are submitted immediately to the reader’s enjoyment.
Sonnet.
Written in a Cottage by the Sea-side. Hastings.
Ye, who would flee from the world’s vanities
From cities’ riot, and mankind’s annoy,
Seek this lone cot, and here forget your sighs,
For health and rest are here—guests but too coy.
If the vast ocean, with its boundless space,
Its power omnipotent, and eternal voice,
Wean not thy thoughts from wearying folly’s choice,
And mortal trifling, unto virtue’s grace,
To high intent, pure purpose, and sweet peace,
Leaving of former bitter pangs no trace;—
If each unworthy wish it does not drown,
And free thee from ennui’s unnerving thrall,
Then art thou dead to nature’s warning call,
And fit but for the maddening haunts of town.
August, 1826.
W. T. M.
Sonnet Stanzas.
On the Sea.
I never gaze upon the mighty sea,
And hear its many voices, but there steals
A host of stirring fancies, vividly
Over my mind; and memory reveals
A thousand wild and wondrous deeds to me;
Of venturous seamen, on their daring keels;
And blood-stain’d pirates, sailing fearlessly;
And lawless smugglers, which each cave conceals;
In his canoe, the savage, roving free;
And all I’ve read of rare and strange, that be
On every shore, o’er which its far wave peals:
With luxuries, in which Imagination reels,
Of bread fruit, palm, banana, cocoa tree,
And thoughts of high emprize, and boundless liberty!
I ne’er upon the ocean gaze, but I
Think of its fearless sons, whose sails, unfurl’d,
So oft have led to Art’s best victory.
Columbus upon unknown waters hurl’d,
Pursuing his sole purpose, firm and high,
The great discovery of another world;
And daring Cook, whose memory’s bepearled
With pity’s tears, from many a wild maid’s eye;
Their Heiva dance, in fancy I espy,
While still the dark chief’s lip in anger curled:
O’er shipwreck’d Crusoe’s lonely fate I sigh,
His self-form’d bark on whelming billows whirled;
And oft, in thought, I hear the Tritons cry,
And see the mermaid train light gliding by.
I never gaze upon the boundless deep,
But still I think upon the glorious brave,
Nelson and Blake, who conquered but to save;
I hear their thunders o’er the billows sweep,
And think of those who perish’d on the wave,
That Britain might a glorious harvest reap!
High hearts and generous, Vain did foemen
Peace to their souls, and sweetly may they sleep,
Entomb’d within the ocean’s lonely cave!
Still many a lovely eye for them shall weep,
Tears, far more precious than the pearls, that keep
Their casket there, or all the sea e’er gave,
To the bold diver’s grasp, whose fearless leap
With wealth enriches, or in death must sleep!
W. T. M.