THE VOICE.
There is a wailing voice which cries
For ever from the ocean,
When the great angry waves arise,
In long low lines against the skies,
And, with a sullen motion,
Dash themselves against the rocks,
Raising a cloud of foam, which mocks
Their sullenness—then falling, dies.
Or when the moon, with radiant face,
Shines on the sea's broad breast,
And woos her with such tender grace,
That, yielding to the soft embrace,
She sinks entranced to rest;
And a soft sleep steals over all,
Unbroken, save by the sea-gull's call,
As he seeks his watery nest.
Out, out afar he wheels his flight,
Where the sky and waters meet,
Till, like a speck in the waning light,
Fading away he is lost to sight,
'Mid shadows dim and fleet;
While from the ocean, calm and deep,
A cool soft mist doth slowly creep,
And shrouds the mountain's feet.
