rolling deep. Indeed, I had supposed that poetry, rather than reality, gave birth to these bright visions of a "life on the ocean wave;" but a few days of sea life, to me all novelty, fulfilled what the poet promised. It was a glorious thing to see the huge billows come rolling from the distant horizon, wave following wave in ceaseless succession, each threatening to engulf us, and yet to feel the deep-laden ship beneath our feet mount to the summit of each as it passed onward in its unchecked course.
The unbounded view of sea and sky, except as each was limited by the other; the loneliness of our ship as it ploughed its way through the trackless expanse of waters; the beauty of the waves, sparkling and glittering in the sunlight, changing from the deep blue of the gulfs from which they rose to green and fleecy white, like hillocks of emerald crested with pearls starting from sapphire beds; sun-risings and sun-settings; the moon obscured by clouds or shining full and mellow on the watery world around, with a thousand changing lights and shades,—are all so full of beauty, that he must be dull indeed who can look on these forms of loveliness and power, and find no gushings of joy and wonder within his soul. How fair must be the mind
