Then, leaping with superior force,
He fearless flew his venturous course,
To search once more the ocean’s bed,
While billows rolled above his head.
Not unrewarded was his toil,—
Uprising with a richer spoil,
He found the land, yet, fainting, sighed
More distant waters to divide.
“How mean this wealth my hands have gain’d
To the vast hoards that lie contained,
’Neath deeps my daring cannot reach,”
Murmured his discontented speech.
“Were this frame gifted with the power,
To gather gems through every hour,
Too short a thousand years would be,
To scour the margin of that sea.”
But there’s an ocean more sublime,
Washing the tiny isle of Time,—
How far across, no sage can say,
Nor guess how low its bottom lay.
’Tis Truth’s deep sea, of bounds unknown,
Where gifted spirits long have thrown
Their mighty vision, till their eyes
Nigh wearied with its mysteries.
Kensington. C.B.S.