THE SONG OF THE SURF.
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THE SONG OF THE SURF.
White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar
On the bar of ironstone steep, and not a fathom's length from the shore,
Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain,
When speech, the harshest and roughest, is seldom studied in vain;
My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone,
In a hieroglyphic ‘tis written—‘tis spoken in a tongue unknown;
Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surging, and shivering, say!
What is the tale you are telling? what is the drift of your lay?
On the bar of ironstone steep, and not a fathom's length from the shore,
Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain,
When speech, the harshest and roughest, is seldom studied in vain;
My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone,
In a hieroglyphic ‘tis written—‘tis spoken in a tongue unknown;
Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surging, and shivering, say!
What is the tale you are telling? what is the drift of your lay?
You come, and your crests are hoary with the foam of your countless years;
You break, with a rainbow of glory, through the spray of your glittering tears.
Is your song a song of gladness? a pæan of joyous might?
Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can right?
You break, with a rainbow of glory, through the spray of your glittering tears.
Is your song a song of gladness? a pæan of joyous might?
Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can right?
