Whose changing mound, and foam that passed away,
Might mock the eye that questioned where I lay.
Observe, there is not a single false, or even overcharged, expression. ‘Mound’ of the sea wave is perfectly simple and true; ‘changing’ is as familiar as may be; ‘foam that passed away’, strictly literal; and the whole line descriptive of the reality with a degree of accuracy which I know not any other verse, in the range of poetry, that altogether equals. For most people have not a distinct idea of the clumsiness and massiveness of a large wave. The word ‘wave’ is used too generally of ripples and breakers, and bendings in light drapery or grass: it does not by itself convey a perfect image. But the word ‘mound’ is heavy, large, dark, definite; there is no mistaking the kind of wave meant, nor missing the sight of it. Then the term ‘changing’ has a peculiar force also. Most people think of waves as rising and falling. But if they look at the sea carefully, they will perceive that the waves do not rise and fall. They change. Change both place and form, but they do not fall; one wave goes on, and on, and still on; now lower, now higher, now tossing its mane like a horse, now building itself together like a wall, now shaking, now steady, but still the same wave, till at last it seems struck by something, and changes, one knows not how,—becomes another wave.
The close of the line insists on this image, and paints it still more perfectly,—‘foam that passed away’. Not merely melting, disappearing, but passing on, out of sight, on the career of the wave. Then, having put the absolute ocean fact as far as he may before our eyes, the poet leaves us to feel about it as we may, and to trace for ourselves the opposite fact,—the image of the green mounds that do not change, and the white and written stones that do not pass away; and thence to follow out also the associated images of the calm life with the quiet grave, and the despairing life with the fading foam:
Let no man move his bones.
As for Samaria, her king is out off like the foam upon the water.
But nothing of this is actually told or pointed out, and the expressions, as they stand, are perfectly severe and accurate, utterly uninfluenced by the firmly governed emotion of the writer. Even the word ‘mock’ is hardly an exception, as it may stand merely for ‘deceive’ or ‘defeat’, without implying any impersonation of the waves.
§ 12. It may be well, perhaps, to give one or two more instances to show the peculiar dignity possessed by all passages which thus limit their expression to the pure fact, and leave the hearer to gather what he can from it. Here is a notable one from the Iliad. Helen, looking from the Scaean gate of Troy over the Grecian host, and telling Priam the names of its captains, says at last:
I see all the other dark-eyed Greeks; but two I cannot see,—Castor and Pollux,—whom one mother bore with me. Have they not followed from fair Lacedaemon, or have they indeed come in their sea-wandering ships, but now will not enter into the battle of men, fearing the shame and the scorn that is in Me?
Then Homer:
So she spoke. But them, already, the life-giving earth possessed, there in Lacedaemon, in the dear fatherland.