The Invalid

Feeble, with languid, staff-supported step,
And heavy eye and heavier heart, I tread
The sun-scorched sand, and breathe the sultry air
That hovers on the road. One effort more,
One mile or two at most, and then I stand
Where I can feel the balmy breath of heaven.
The grassy lane, o'er-arched with boughs and leaves,
Runs its green vista to a small bright point,
And that point is the ocean. Faint the limbs,
And all the body tires — but for the soul,
It hath its holyday in such a spot.

A moment rest we on the only stone
In all the alley— wipe the sweating brow,
And drop the eye upon the turf around.

The notes of birds are heard in other groves,
And everywhere are welcome; for the song
Of gladness and of innocence is sweet
To all. But here and to the weary too
'T is exquisite: for with it comes the sound,
Not of the wind-fanned leaves and rustling boughs,
And wavy tree-tops only — but the voice
Of ocean.

He has heard its mighty sound
Whose bark was on its awful waters, when
The billows swept the deck and rioted,
Mixed with the winds, round all its gallant spars.
He too has heard its moanings, who, becalmed
Lies like a small thing, helpless and alone
Upon a rolling, waste immensity.
And he has heard another tone, who marks
Its furious dance among the leeward rocks,
Where he must bear its ravings o'er his bones.
But in this calm and leafy grove, the sound
Is smoother, softer, sweeter, than the harp
That the winds love to play on. Let us rise
And view the Giant that can tune his voice
To every passion —that can touch each chord
That vibrates in a saint's or sinner's heart.
—But to the shore. O! what a depth of wave,
And what a length of foam! That solemn voice!
'T is louder and yet sweeter — They mistake
Who call it hoarse — They never on the white
And pebbly beach in peace and quietness
Have heard it roar — or watched the spray
That, venturing furthest on the smooth, white sand,
Kisses, retires, and comes to kiss again.

Upon the utmost bound, a clear, white jet
Of water, from the dark green wave, betrays
The sporting of the whale; and nearer shore
The sea-birds rise upon their wetted wings,
And bear their prey far to their lonely nests.

The sun sets — and the blushing water turns
To a blue, star-spread, foam-tipped, wavy sea
Of beauty. Yonder sweeps a brave white sail,
Bending as gracefully in evening's breeze
As a keen skater on the glassy ice.
And now — even as some hospitable man
Will light his going guest into the path,
And bid God bless him, as he speeds his way
Onward, alone, into the untried dark,
The Lighthouse — last of friends that ship may see,
Points out the course, till far beyond its beam
The sea fire of the ocean only shines.

Away —from all that's bright, and beautiful;
From the fresh breeze and from the glorious view,
From all that's lovely, noble, or sublime,
To the sick pillow and the feverish bed.
There may good angels watch me, and good thoughts
Crowd to my dreaming and my waking hours;
For the whole world of waters, the firm land,
The canopy, with all its suns and stars,
Its bright, unnumbered systems, all are His,
And He is everywhere.