But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage; For, whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.
Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet, Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet.
So, then, we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In heaven,—their earthly bodies left behind.
RICHARD LOVELACE.
FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH."
Her window opens to the bay,
On glistening light or misty gray,
And there at dawn and set of day
In prayer she kneels: "Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a home
From wind and wave the wanderers come;
I only see the tossing foam
Of stranger keels.
"Blown out and in by summer gales,
The stately ships, with crowded sails,
And sailors leaning o'er their rails,
Before me glide; They come, they go, but nevermore,
Spice-laden from the Indian shore,
I see his swift-winged Isidore
The waves divide.
"O Thou! with whom the night is day
And one the near and far away,
Look out on yon gray waste, and say
Where lingers he. Alive, perchance, on some lone beach
Or thirsty isle beyond the reach
Of man, he hears the mocking speech
Of wind and sea.
"O dread and cruel deep, reveal
The secret which thy waves conceal,
And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel
And tell your tale. Let winds that tossed his raven hair
A message from my lost one bear,—
Some thought of me, a last fond prayer
Or dying wail!