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Updated: May 25, 2025
Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps Upon the ocean's trembling tide; Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps Yon sad, that swells in stately pride: Soft as the surge's stealing note, That dies along the distant shores, Or warbled strain, that sinks remote So soft the sigh my bosom pours!
Oh, how anxiously we watched the noble fabric as she ponderously ploughed her way obliquely toward us over the liquid ridges, now plunging to her hawse-holes and rolling heavily to leeward as she dived into the trough, and anon raising her dripping bows, richly carved and gilt, high in air as she slowly climbed to the surge's crest!
The lonely man in his eyrie in the Rockies, reviewing the bygone time, murmured what he could recall of these: "A land of fire and a land of frost Build!" said the Lord of the Soul; "And lay me an ocean from coast to coast, And let it be awful with many a ghost Of galleons laden with gold, and lost In the smothering surge's roll.
She is in corset, knickers, and silk stockings. THE NEGRESS'S VOICE. Who is it? BURGE-LUBIN. Me. The President. Burge-Lubin. I had no idea your bedroom switch was in. I beg your pardon. The negress reappears. She has pulled the dressing-gown perfunctorily over her shoulders, and continues her experiments with the scarf, not at all put out, and rather amused by Surge's prudery.
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