As OCEAN'S stream girdles the ball of earth,
From circling seas of dream man's life emerges,
And as night moves in silence up the firth
The secret tide around our mainland surges.

The voice of urgent waters softly sounds;
The magic skiff uplifts white wings of wonder.
The tide swells swiftly and the white sail rounds,
Where the blind waves in shoreless darkness thunder.

And the wide heavens, starred and luminous,
Out of the deep in mystery aspire.
The strange abyss is burning under us;
And we sail onward, and our wake is fire.

WRITTEN ON THE TAKING OF CARTHAGENA FROM THE SPANIARDS, 1739

A S near Portobello lying
— On the gently-swelling flood,
At midnight, with streamers flying,
— Our triumphant navy rode;
There while Vernon sat all-glorious
— From the Spaniards' late defeat,
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
— Drank success to England's fleet:

On a sudden, shrilly sounding,
— Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;
Then, each heart with fear confounding,
— A sad troop of ghosts appeared;
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,

As near beauteous Boston lying,
On the gently swelling flood,
Without jack or pendant flying,
Three ill-fated tea-ships rode.

Just as glorious Sol was setting,
On the wharf, a numerous crew,
Sons of freedom, fear forgetting,
Suddenly appeared in view.

Armed with hammers, axe, and chisels,
Weapons new for warlike deed,
Towards the herbage-freighted vessels,
They approached with dreadful speed.

O'er their heads aloft in mid-sky,
Three bright angel forms were seen;
This was Hampden, that was Sidney,

As my mind in fancy wanders,
While we figure on Life's stage,
While in queries deep we ponder,
O'er the past years ripe with age;
While sipping slowly from Life's cup,
And in tho'ts deepest trance,
This question often rises up,
" Has the Negro had a chance? "

'Tis true, they lived one life,
Thro'out the darkened age,
When 'mid events full of strife
They wrote upon life's page;
In darkest hours of the night,
Their soul would seem entranced,
Wondering if some time in life,
The Negro'd have a chance.

The summer was over, the season unkind,
In harvest a snow how uncommon to find;
The times were oppressive, and well it be known
That hunger will strongest of fences break down.

'Twas then from their cells the black gentry stepped out
With bludgeons, determined to stir up a rout;
The prince of the party, who revelled from home,
Was a terrible fellow, and called Irish Tom.

He brandished his bludgeon with dexterous skill
And close to his elbow was placed Barley Will.
Instantly followed a numerous train,

As Mars and Minerva were viewing of some implements
Bellona stepped forward and asked the news.
Were they for repairing those warlike instruments
That's now growing rusty for want to be used?
The money is withdrawn and our trade is diminishing,
Mechanics are wandering without shoes or hose.
Come, stir up the wars and our trade will be flourishing.
This grand conversation was under the rose.

See how they transact in the States of America,
Renowned independence sits on the throne.
They are not misguided by schemes of a ministry

As long as I live
I shall always be
My Self — and no other,
Just me.

Like a tree.

Like a willow or elder,
An aspen, a thorn,
Or a cypress forlorn.

Like a flower,
For its hour
A primrose, a pink,
Or a violet —
Sunned by the sun,
And with dewdrops wet.

Always just me.

It stood in the sunset sky
Like the straight-backed down,
Many a time — the barn
At the edge of the town,

So huge and dark that it seemed
It was the hill
Till the gable's precipice proved
It impossible.

Then the great down in the west
Grew into sight,
A barn stored full to the ridge
With black of night;

And the barn fell to a barn
Or even less
Before critical eyes and its own
Late mightiness.

But far down and near barn and I
Since then have smiled,
Having seen my new cautiousness

" AS like the Woman as you can " —
— (Thus the New Adam was beguiled) —
" So shall you touch the Perfect Man " —
— (God in the Garden heard and smiled).
" Your father perished with his day:
— A clot of passions fierce and blind,
He fought, he hacked, he crushed his way:
— Your muscles, Child, must be of mind.

" The Brute that lurks and irks within,
— How, till you have him gagged and bound,
Escape the foulest form of Sin? "
— (God in the Garden laughed and frowned).
" So vile, so rank, the bestial mood

As life runs on, the road grows strange
With faces new, and near the end
The milestones into headstones change,
'Neath every one a friend.