THE DEEP.
I fain would be thy pupil, mighty Deep!
Yet speak thou gently to me, for I fear
Thy lifted terror, and I would not learn
The lesson that doth make the mariner
So deadly pale.
My mother Earth doth teach
An easy lore. She likes to speak of man.
Her levell'd mountains and her cultured vales,
Town, tower, and temple, and triumphal arch,
All speak of man, and moulder while they speak.
But of whose architecture and design
Tell thine eternal fountains, when they rise
To combat with the clouds, or when they fall?
Of whose strong culture speak thy sunless plants,
And groves and gardens, which no mortal eye
Hath seen and lived?
What sculptor's art hath wrought
Those coral monuments and tombs of pearl,
Where sleeps the sea-boy, mid a pomp that earth
Denies her buried kings?
Whose science stretch'd
The simplest line to curb thy monstrous tide,
And, writing "Hitherto" upon the sand,
Bade thy mad surge respect it?
From whose loom
Comes forth thy drapery, that ne'er waxeth old?
