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THE SEA

THE sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be;

With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;

If a storm should come and awake the deep.
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love (Oh! how I love) to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,

And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;

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And a mother she was, and is, to me;
For I was born on the open sea!

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The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the ocean-child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers, a sailor's life,

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With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought nor sighed for change;
And Death, whenever he come to me,

Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea! 1832.

Bryan Waller Procter.

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A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING

SEA

A WET sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast

And fills the white and rustling sail

And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While like the eagle free

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

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"O for a soft and gentle wind!" I hear a fair one cry;

1822.

But give to me the snoring breeze
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornéd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
But hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-

While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

Allan Cunningham.

THE BLOOD HORSE

GAMARRA is a noble steed,

Strong, black, and of a noble breed,

Full of fire, and full of bone,

With all his line of fathers known;
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,

But blown abroad by the pride within!
His mane, a stormy river flowing,
And his eyes like embers glowing
In the darkness of the night,
And his pace as swift as light.

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1832.

Look,-around his straining throat
Grace and shifting beauty float;
Sinewy strength is in his reins,

And the red blood gallops through his
veins :

Richer, redder, never ran

Through the boasting heart of man.
He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,-
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He, who hath no peer, was born
Here, upon a red March morn:
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred;
And the last of that great line
Trod like one of a race divine!

And yet, he was but friend to one
Who fed him at the set of sun

By some lone fountain fringed with green;
With him, a roving Bedouin,

He lived (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day),
And died untamed upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands.

Bryan Walter Procter.

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