'I could never tire of gazing upon waves. Whether watching them by the shore of an inland lake, as they roll up, in hues of emerald, to the reedy marge, or listening to their swelling monotone, as they break upon the long sea-beach, or curl into white foam in mid-ocean, they are alike beautiful and inspiring to me.'
Letter from a Friend.
I.
There's music in the waves by day,
When lightsomely they dance along,
And in their wild and sunny play,
Awake the raptured soul to song;
They tell of childhood's blessed dreams,
And hopes that lit young fancy's eye,
When life's care-chequer'd journey seems
Bright as the sunbeam in the sky.
II.
A spell is on the waves by night,
Communing with the spirit's ear;
It breathes of hopes which once were bright,
Enshrouded now in doubt and fear;
And, blent with their low murm'ring swell,
Come whisperings unto the heart,
Of Him, whose voice doth ever dwell
Mid scenes from busy life apart.
III.
But most at twilight's hush I love
The melting cadence of the wave,
Bringing sweet greetings from above,
Of friends long sundered by the grave;
It bids me love, and live again
O'er fair existence' vernal morn,
Ere sorrow dim'd one hour with pain—
Ere from the heart one tie was torn.
IV.
The waves!—they tell of boyhood's dreams,
And joys which after years know not;
Of verdant groves and babbling streams,
And many a well-remember'd spot;
And with their gentle music come
Fond longings to the weary breast,
For Heaven's own unembitter'd home—
Of pure delight and ceaseless rest.
Hartford, 1837.