  "A very intelligent young lady, born and bred in the Orkney islands, who lately came to spend a season in this neighbourhood, told me nothing in the mainland scenery had so much disappointed her as woods and trees. She found them so dead and lifeless, that she never could help pining after the eternal motion and variety of the ocean. And so back she has gone; and I believe nothing will ever tempt her from the wind-swept Orcades again."—Sir Walter Scott. Lockhart's Life, vol. ii.—[Although it is of a female this striking anecdote is related, it has been thought more suitable to give the amplified expression of the sentiment in the stanzas a masculine application.] I.These grassy vales are warm and deep, Where apple-orchards wave and glow; Upon soft uplands whitening sheep Drift in long wreaths.—Below, Sun-fronting beds of garden-thyme, alive With the small humming merchants of the hive, And cottage-homes in every shady nook Where willows dip and kiss the dimples of the brook. II.But all too close against my face My thick breath feels these crowding trees, They crush me in their green embrace.— I miss the Life of Seas; The wild free life that round the flinty shores Of my bleak isles expanded Ocean pours— So free, so far, that, in the lull of even, Naught but the rising moon stands on your path to heaven. III.In summer's smile, in winter's strife, Unstirr'd, those hills are walls to me; I want the vast, all-various life Of the broad, circling Sea,— Each hour in morn, or noon, or midnight's range, That heaves or slumbers with exhaustless change, Dash'd to the skies—steep'd in blue morning's rays— Or back resparkling far Orion's lovely blaze. IV.I miss the madd'ning Life of Seas, When the red, angry sunset dies, And to the storm-lash'd Orcades Resound the Seaman's cries: Mid thick'ning night and fresh'ning gale, upon The stretch'd ear bursts Despair's appealing gun, O'er the low Reef that on the lee-beam raves With its down-crashing hills of wild, devouring waves. V.How then, at dim, exciting morn, Suspense will question—as the Dark Is clearing seaward—"Has she worn The tempest through, that Bark?" And wretches clinging to a shiver'd mast, Give funeral answer. Quick with ropes and yawl! Launch! and for life stretch out! they shall not perish all! VI.These inland love-bowers sweetly bloom, White with the hawthorn's summer snows; Along soft turf a purple gloom The elm at sunset throws: There the fond lover, listening for the sweet Half-soundless coming of his Maiden's feet, Thrills if the linnet's rustling pinions pass, Or some light leaf is blown rippling along the grass. VII.But Love his pain as sweetly tells Beneath some cavern beetling hoar, Where silver sands and rosy shells Pave the smooth glistening shore— When all the winds are low, and to thy tender Accents, the wavelets, stealing in, make slender And tinkling cadence, wafting, every one, A golden smile to thee from the fast-sinking sun. VIII.Calm through the heavenly sea on high Comes out each white and quiet star— So calm up Ocean's floating sky Come, one by one, afar, White quiet sails from the grim icy coasts That hear the battles of the Whaleing hosts, Whose homeward crews with feet and flutes in tune And spirits roughly blithe, make music to the moon. IX.Or if (like some) thou'st loved in vain, Or madly wooed the already Won, —Go when the Passion and the Pain Their havoc have begun, And dare the Thunder, rolling up behind The Deep, to match that hurricane of mind: Or to the sea-winds, raging on thy pale Grief-wasted cheek, pour forth as bitter-keen a tale. X.For in that sleepless, tumbling tide— When most thy fever'd spirits reel, Sick with desires unsatisfied, —Dwell life and balm to heal. Raise thy free Sail, and seek o'er ocean's breast —It boots not what—those rose-clouds in the West, And deem that thus thy spirit freed shall be, Ploughing the stars through seas of blue Eternity. XI.This mainland life I could not live, Nor die beneath a rookery's leaves,— But I my parting breath would give Where chainless Ocean heaves; Could see the Lighthouse flame into the night, Emblem of guidance and of hope, to save; Type of the Rescuer bright who walked the howling wave. XII.Nor, dead, amid the charnel's breath Shall rise my tomb with lies befool'd, But, like the Greek who faced in death The sea in life he ruled,13 High on some peak, wave-girded, will I sleep, My dirge sung ever by the choral deep; There, sullen mourner! oft at midnight lone Shall my familiar friend, the Thunder, come to groan. XIII.Soft Vales and sunny hills, farewell! Long shall the friendship of your bowers Be sweet to me as is the smell Of their strange lovely flowers; And each kind face, like every pleasant star Be bright to me though ever bright afar: True as the sea-bird's wing, I seek my home, And its glad Life, once more, by boundless Ocean's foam! |
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