  Ah! but thou’rt beautiful, sapphire sea, When the sun in splendor along thee smiles, And thy sparkling wavelets rise and fall In murmurs afar by a thousand isles, Where whispering winds speak soft and low— O gentle isles, kissed by thy restless feet— Where the spices and palm and olives grow, And odorous blossoms so fair and sweet. But why dost thou moan so, O great, sad sea? Such a weary, pitiful, pleading moan, Like a soul all dead to the hope of heaven, Drifting out and lost in the vast unknown. And why dost thou sob through the moonless night? Such passionate sobs rend thy deep, dark caves, Throbbing up from thy bosom ne’er at rest, O sea, with thy million lone hidden graves! Thy deep soul ever appealeth to me In the lonesome night on the wave-worn shore; But I cannot tell all it says to me Of voices and dreamings that are no more. Sometimes thou murmurest soft and low, When the summer glorifies earth and sea; Thy pathetic voice is borne on the wind, The sweet south wind toying kindly with thee. And thou seemest to woo in tender tones, And would clasp and hold the warm, shining shore; But thou failest, O sea, and thy sad voice Is sobbing and sobbing forevermore. Surely the Creator speaketh in thee; And a sorrow so deep, so mysterious, Appealeth in sobs eternally. When the wild typhoon sweeps thy heaving breast, And thy billows threaten the angry sky, Thy merciless fury knoweth no bounds As the doomed ships before thee madly fly. In vain the appealing flag of distress, In vain the minute guns peal o’er the sea, In vain are prayers and the pleading cry— They sink! they sink to eternity! But the storm rolls by, and the waves subside, And the sun in glory bursts forth again; But oh! there are many breaking hearts, Weary of waiting in hopeless pain. Aye, ye’re watching in vain through dimming eyes; Ye’ve waited so long by the storm-swept shore: The seasons will come and the years will go, But the loved will come no more, no more. Art troubled, O sea, that ye rest not, nor sleep, Nor cease thy dirges by night or day? The loved and lost of the pale, dead past Strew thy drear chambers and desolate way. And they slumber in utter loneliness; No friend may kneel by their dismal tomb; They never know of the spring’s fair hours, Or the songs of birds. The summer’s bloom Decks not their mystical, sea-fret graves, But they await the illumining ray Of light from heaven to pierce the cold gloom— An everlasting celestial day. In passion rent, or in gentle tone; Thy awesome voice is a mystery still, But never at rest is thy weary moan. |
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