Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Oceanica: Vol. XXXI. 1876–79.
Southern Seas
By William Howitt (17921879)Y
Spread canvas to the wind,—
Up! we will seek the glowing South,—
Leave care and cold behind.
Our flying vessel’s track;
Let strong winds blow, and rocks below
Threaten,—we turn not back.
In his Almighty hand,
We pass the awful waters wide,
Tread many a far-off strand.
From day to day, the sky
Above our head its arch shall spread
More glowing, bright, and high;
In its azure depths to mark
Stars all unknown come glittering out
Over the ocean dark.
So stately, large, and sheen,
And the very stars, like clustered moons,
In the crystal ether keen.
Strange, fiery billows play,—
The ceaseless keel through liquid fire
Cuts wondrously its way.
How warm the breezes float!
How warm the amber waters stream
From off our basking boat!
What a marvellous sight is here!
Look! purple rocks and crimson trees,
Down in the deep so clear.
A glad and glorious band,
Sporting amongst the roseate woods
Of a coral fairy-land.
How the gorgeous shells do glide!
O sea! old sea, who yet knows half
Of thy wonders and thy pride!
As it were like a mermaid’s locks,
Waving in thread of ruby red
Over those nether rocks,
Here hyacinth, there green,—
With many a stem of golden growth,
And starry flowers between.
For monstrous shapes are here,—
Monsters of dark and wallowing bulk,
And horny eyeballs drear:
Speckled and warted back;
The glittering swift, and the flabby slow,
Ramp through this deep sea track.
To glance o’er the breezy brine,
And see the nautilus gladly sail,
The flying-fish leap and shine.
’T is land!” the sailors cry.
Nay! ’t is a long and a narrow cloud
Betwixt the sea and sky.
And now comes breathing on
An odor of the living earth,
Such as the sea hath none.
The purple hills! the trees!
Ah! what a glorious land is here,
What happy scenes are these!
From mountain clefts,—what vales,
Basking beneath the noontide sun,
That high and hotly sails.
Unheedful of the glow,
Look how the children of the South
Are passing to and fro!
Cast anchor in this cove,
Push out the boat, for in this land
A little we must rove!
We ’ll sit beneath the vine;
We ’ll drink the limpid cocoa-milk,
And pluck the native pine.
And many a glowing berry,
Shall be our feast; for here, at least,
Why should we not be merry!
All gladsome,—plain and shore,—
A land so far that here we are,
But shall be here no more.
Its seas and isles and men;
So now! back to a dearer land,—
To England back again!