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Updated: May 26, 2025
The pines are gold with evening And breathe their old-time fragrance by the sea; You loved so well their spicy exhalation, So smiled to smell it and old ocean's piquancy; And those weird tales of winds and waves' relation Could you forget? Will you not come to me?
When the boy, with Liddy's soft hand curled confidingly around his arm, started for her home, a mile away, he was proud as a king, and far happier. And that long walk in the moonlight, while "On his arm a soft hand rested; rested light as ocean's foam," could he, or would he, ever forget it? I think not.
But even she can hardly bring the smoking locomotive into such pathetic relations with nature as the "little brig," whose "white foot tripped, then dropped from sight," leaving "the ocean's heart too smooth, too blue, to break for you." Her poems on death and the beyond, on time and eternity, are full of her peculiar note.
Inspiration fills its sails, Faith and courage make thine own, Gods ne'er lend a helping-hand; 'Tis by magic power alone Thou canst reach the magic land! Oh! thou bright-beaming god, the plains are thirsting, Thirsting for freshening dew, and man is pining; Wearily move on thy horses Let, then, thy chariot descend! Seest thou her who, from ocean's crystal billows, Lovingly nods and smiles?
Just here the land was rolling a grand sweep of regular elevations and depressions as far as the eye could reach like the stately heave and swell of the ocean's bosom after a storm. And everywhere were cornfields, accenting with squares of deeper green, this limitless expanse of grassy land.
Alas! it could not be washed away; it was a little sharp rock based beneath the ocean's depths, and when the water ran low its dark point reappeared.
With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders on its far sails whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars.
Full to overflow with the gifts of its new companions, it hastens to bestow of its superabundance on less favoured particles; joins the great army of the ocean's currents; enters, perchance, the Gulf of Mexico, where it is turned back, and hastens along with the Gulf Stream, with all its natural warmth of character, to ameliorate the climate of Great Britain and the western shores of Europe.
What is necessary in an historian, as in the élite of an army, is not the desultory fire of light troops, nor the ordinary steadiness of common soldiers, but the regulated ardour, the burning but yet restrained enthusiasm, which, trained by discipline, taught by experience, keeps itself under control till the proper moment for action arrives, and then sweeps, at the voice of its leader, with "the ocean's mighty swing" on the foe.
At such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon smooth, slow heaving swells; seated in his boat, light as a birch canoe; and so sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearth-stone cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean's skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.
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