A Vision Of The Sea.

'Tis the terror of tempest. The rags of the sail     Are flickering in ribbons within the fierce gale:     From the stark night of vapours the dim rain is driven,     And when lightning is loosed, like a deluge from Heaven,     She sees the black trunks of the waterspouts spin     And bend, as if Heaven was ruining in,     Which they seemed to sustain with their terrible mass     As if ocean had sunk from beneath them: they pass     To their graves in the deep with an earthquake of sound,     And the waves and the thunders, made silent around,     Leave the wind to its echo. The vessel, now tossed     Through the low-trailing rack of the tempest, is lost     In the skirts of the thunder-cloud: now down the sweep     Of the wind-cloven wave to the chasm of the deep     It sinks, and the walls of the watery vale     Whose depths of dread calm are unmoved by the gale,     Dim mirrors of ruin, hang gleaming about;     While the surf, like a chaos of stars, like a rout     Of death-flames, like whirlpools of fire-flowing iron,     With splendour and terror the black ship environ,     Or like sulphur-flakes hurled from a mine of pale fire     In fountains spout o'er it. In many a spire     The pyramid-billows with white points of brine     In the cope of the lightning inconstantly shine,     As piercing the sky from the floor of the sea.     The great ship seems splitting! it cracks as a tree,     While an earthquake is splintering its root, ere the blast     Of the whirlwind that stripped it of branches has passed.     The intense thunder-balls which are raining from Heaven     Have shattered its mast, and it stands black and riven.     The chinks suck destruction. The heavy dead hulk     On the living sea rolls an inanimate bulk,     Like a corpse on the clay which is hungering to fold     Its corruption around it. Meanwhile, from the hold,     One deck is burst up by the waters below,     And it splits like the ice when the thaw-breezes blow     O'er the lakes of the desert! Who sit on the other?     Is that all the crew that lie burying each other,     Like the dead in a breach, round the foremast? Are those     Twin tigers, who burst, when the waters arose,     In the agony of terror, their chains in the hold;     (What now makes them tame, is what then made them bold;)     Who crouch, side by side, and have driven, like a crank,     The deep grip of their claws through the vibrating plank     Are these all? Nine weeks the tall vessel had lain     On the windless expanse of the watery plain,     Where the death-darting sun cast no shadow at noon,     And there seemed to be fire in the beams of the moon,     Till a lead-coloured fog gathered up from the deep,     Whose breath was quick pestilence; then, the cold sleep     Crept, like blight through the ears of a thick field of corn,     O'er the populous vessel. And even and morn,     With their hammocks for coffins the seamen aghast     Like dead men the dead limbs of their comrades cast     Down the deep, which closed on them above and around,     And the sharks and the dogfish their grave-clothes unbound,     And were glutted like Jews with this manna rained down     From God on their wilderness. One after one     The mariners died; on the eve of this day,     When the tempest was gathering in cloudy array,     But seven remained. Six the thunder has smitten,     And they lie black as mummies on which Time has written     His scorn of the embalmer; the seventh, from the deck     An oak-splinter pierced through his breast and his back,     And hung out to the tempest, a wreck on the wreck.     No more? At the helm sits a woman more fair     Than Heaven, when, unbinding its star-braided hair,     It sinks with the sun on the earth and the sea.     She clasps a bright child on her upgathered knee;     It laughs at the lightning, it mocks the mixed thunder     Of the air and the sea, with desire and with wonder     It is beckoning the tigers to rise and come near,     It would play with those eyes where the radiance of fear     Is outshining the meteors; its bosom beats high,     The heart-fire of pleasure has kindled its eye,     While its mother's is lustreless. 'Smile not, my child,     But sleep deeply and sweetly, and so be beguiled     Of the pang that awaits us, whatever that be,     So dreadful since thou must divide it with me!     Dream, sleep! This pale bosom, thy cradle and bed,     Will it rock thee not, infant? 'Tis beating with dread!     Alas! what is life, what is death, what are we,     That when the ship sinks we no longer may be?     What! to see thee no more, and to feel thee no more?     To be after life what we have been before?     Not to touch those sweet hands? Not to look on those eyes,     Those lips, and that hair, - all the smiling disguise     Thou yet wearest, sweet Spirit, which I, day by day,     Have so long called my child, but which now fades away     Like a rainbow, and I the fallen shower?' - Lo! the ship     Is settling, it topples, the leeward ports dip;     The tigers leap up when they feel the slow brine     Crawling inch by inch on them; hair, ears, limbs, and eyne,     Stand rigid with horror; a loud, long, hoarse cry     Bursts at once from their vitals tremendously,     And 'tis borne down the mountainous vale of the wave,     Rebounding, like thunder, from crag to cave,     Mixed with the clash of the lashing rain,     Hurried on by the might of the hurricane:     The hurricane came from the west, and passed on     By the path of the gate of the eastern sun,     Transversely dividing the stream of the storm;     As an arrowy serpent, pursuing the form     Of an elephant, bursts through the brakes of the waste.     Black as a cormorant the screaming blast,     Between Ocean and Heaven, like an ocean, passed,     Till it came to the clouds on the verge of the world     Which, based on the sea and to Heaven upcurled,     Like columns and walls did surround and sustain     The dome of the tempest; it rent them in twain,     As a flood rends its barriers of mountainous crag:     And the dense clouds in many a ruin and rag,     Like the stones of a temple ere earthquake has passed,     Like the dust of its fall. on the whirlwind are cast;     They are scattered like foam on the torrent; and where     The wind has burst out through the chasm, from the air     Of clear morning the beams of the sunrise flow in,     Unimpeded, keen, golden, and crystalline,     Banded armies of light and of air; at one gate     They encounter, but interpenetrate.     And that breach in the tempest is widening away,     And the caverns of cloud are torn up by the day,     And the fierce winds are sinking with weary wings,     Lulled by the motion and murmurings     And the long glassy heave of the rocking sea,     And overhead glorious, but dreadful to see,     The wrecks of the tempest, like vapours of gold,     Are consuming in sunrise. The heaped waves behold     The deep calm of blue Heaven dilating above,     And, like passions made still by the presence of Love,     Beneath the clear surface reflecting it slide     Tremulous with soft influence; extending its tide     From the Andes to Atlas, round mountain and isle,     Round sea-birds and wrecks, paved with Heaven's azure smile,     The wide world of waters is vibrating. Where     Is the ship? On the verge of the wave where it lay     One tiger is mingled in ghastly affray     With a sea-snake. The foam and the smoke of the battle     Stain the clear air with sunbows; the jar, and the rattle     Of solid bones crushed by the infinite stress     Of the snake's adamantine voluminousness;     And the hum of the hot blood that spouts and rains     Where the gripe of the tiger has wounded the veins     Swollen with rage, strength, and effort; the whirl and the splash     As of some hideous engine whose brazen teeth smash     The thin winds and soft waves into thunder; the screams     And hissings crawl fast o'er the smooth ocean-streams,     Each sound like a centipede. Near this commotion,     A blue shark is hanging within the blue ocean,     The fin-winged tomb of the victor. The other     Is winning his way from the fate of his brother     To his own with the speed of despair. Lo! a boat     Advances; twelve rowers with the impulse of thought     Urge on the keen keel, - the brine foams. At the stern     Three marksmen stand levelling. Hot bullets burn     In the breast of the tiger, which yet bears him on     To his refuge and ruin. One fragment alone, -     'Tis dwindling and sinking, 'tis now almost gone, -     Of the wreck of the vessel peers out of the sea.     With her left hand she grasps it impetuously.     With her right she sustains her fair infant. Death, Fear,     Love, Beauty, are mixed in the atmosphere,     Which trembles and burns with the fervour of dread     Around her wild eyes, her bright hand, and her head,     Like a meteor of light o'er the waters! her child     Is yet smiling, and playing, and murmuring; so smiled     The false deep ere the storm. Like a sister and brother     The child and the ocean still smile on each other,     Whilst -