  Around the painted mast, And a gaudy flag with purple glows, Hung up in sportive joy by those Whose sports and joys are past. So lightly doth this little boat Upon the scarce-touch'd billows float, So careless doth she seem to be Thus left by herself on the homeless sea, That, while the happy lovers gaze On her, the hope of happier days O'er souls that were prepared for death. They gaze on her, till she appears To understand their grateful tears; To lie there with her idle sail Till Heaven should send some gracious gale, Some gentle spirit of the deep, With motion soft and swift as sleep, To waft them to some pleasant cave In the unknown gardens of the wave, That, hid from every human eye, Are happy in the smiling sky, And in their beauty win the love Of every orb that shines above. Fitz-Owen from his dream awakes, And gently in his arms he takes His gentle Maid, as a shepherd kind Brings from the killing mountain wind A snow-white lamb, and lets it rest In sleep and beauty on his breast. Within the boat at rest is laid: Her limbs recline as if in sleep, Though almost resting on the deep; On his dear bosom leans her head, And through her long hair, wildly spread O'er all her face, her melting eyes Are lifted upwards to the skies, As if she pray'd that Heaven would save The arms that fold her, from the grave. The boat hath left the lonesome rock, And tries the wave again, And on she glides without a fear, So beauteous is the Main. Her little sail beneath the sun Gleams radiant as the snow, And o'er the gently-heaving swell Bounds like a mountain-roe. In that frail bark the Lovers sit, With steadfast face and silent breath, Yet reconciled to death. His arm is round her tender side, That moves beneath the press, With a mingled beat of solemn awe And virgin tenderness. They speak not:—but the inward flow Of faith and dread, and joy and wo, Each from the other hears: Long, long they gaze with meeting eyes, Then lift them slowly to the skies Steep'd in imploring tears. And ever, as the rock recedes, They feel their spirits rise; And half forget that the smiling sea Caused all their miseries. Yet safe to them is the trackless brine As some well-known and rural road Paced in their childhood;—for they love Each other, and believe in God. And well might the refulgent day These Ocean Pilgrims chear, And make them feel as if the glades Of home itself were near. For a living sentiment of joy, Such as doth sleep on hill and vale When the friendly sun comes from his clouds The vernal bloom to hail,— Plays on the Ocean's sparkling breast, That, half in motion, half at rest, Like a happy thing doth lie; Breathing that fresh and fragrant air, And seeming in that slumber fair The Brother of the Sky. Hues brighter than the ruby-stone With radiance gem his wavy zone, A million hues, I ween: Long dazzling lines of snowy white, Fantastic wreath'd with purple light, Or bathed in richest green. Skims through the sunny ray, Then, like the rainbow's dying gleam, In the clear wave melts away. And all the beauteous joy seems made For that dauntless Youth and sainted Maid, Whom God and Angels love: Comfort is in the helm, the sail, The light, the clouds, the sea, the gale, Around, below, above. And thus they sail, and sail along, Without one thought of fear; As calm as if the boatman's song Awoke an echoing chear, O'er the hills that stretch in sylvan pride On the Bala Lake's romantic side. And lo! beneath the mellowing light, That trembles between day and night Before the Sun's decline, Upstarting dim the nameless land Extends its mountain line. It is no cloud that steadfast lies Between the Ocean and the Skies; No image of a cloud, that flings Across the deep its shadowy wings; Such as oft cheats with visions fair The heart of home-sick mariner. It is the living Earth! They see From the shore a smile of amity That gently draws them on, Such a smile as o'er all Nature glows At a summer evening's fragrant close, When the winds and rain are gone. The self-moved boat appears to seek With gladsome glide a home-like creek, In the centre of a bay, Which the calm and quiet hills surround, And touch'd by waves without a sound, Almost as calm as they. And, what if here fierce savage men Glare on them from some darksome den?— What would become of this most helpless Maid? Fitz-Owe |
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