It sees itself from thatch to base
Dream in the sliding tides.
“And fairer she: but, ah! how soon to die!
Her quiet dream of life this hour may cease:
Her peaceful being slowly passes by
To some more perfect peace.”
The very next poem, “The Sailor Boy,” in the same volume, is—though written in exactly the same measure—driven on with the most rapid march and vigorous rhythm—
“He rose at dawn and, fired with hope,
Shot o’er the seething harbour-bar,
And reached the ship and caught the rope