Classic Poem

Many are thy tones, O Ocean,
Filling us with strange emotion
As we hear the murmurs wild;
In their weird and solemn power,
Thou dost send them ev'ry hour
To thy yearning, list'ning child.

Like a voice subdued and tragic,
Many of thy songs bring magic,
Others to us hoarsely call;
Some are sweet and fraught with gladness,
Some have strains akin to sadness,
Yet we prize and love them all.

In the heart nigh crushed with sorrow,
Dreading the unknown to-morrow,
Wishing past the drear to-day,
In the soul its burden bearing
While the lip a smile is wearing,
They have waked an answering lay.

Thou hast psalms of glad thanksgiving,
Choral anthems for the living,
Dirges for the silent throng;
For the beautiful who, lying
Where the mermaids low are sighing,
Nevermore shall join thy song.

There is freedom in thy dashing
As thy waves the rocks are lashing,
Singing loud their mad refrain;
Of unrest the chords are telling,
And from many a soul's depth welling,
Comes an echo to the strain.

Like some lone heart's plaintive throbbing,
Leap the billows, wildly sobbing,
Flinging to the pulseless air,—
Now, a cadence hushed and calming,
Now, a peal fierce and alarming,
Now a wail of deep despair.

As the sad mysterious surges
Chant their melancholy dirges,
In a whisper ne'er repressed,
So within the realm of feeling,
Hopes and longings softly stealing,
Moan forever unexpressed.

When thy sweetly chiming chorus
Throws its fascination o'er us,
We would fain translate it all;
But in vain is e'en our trying,
For thy notes are never-dying,
And they baffle as they fall.

Soft thy hymns of awed devotion
Float on waves of ceaseless motion,
To the throne of God above.
Many are thy tones, O Ocean,
Filling us with strange emotion,
Tuning souls to praise and love.