Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader · Chapter 255=328.= the Coral Grove
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Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with the falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; From coral rocks, the sea-plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air. There, with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter. There, with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea, And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea, And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone.
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=Richard H. Dana, 1787-.= (Manual, pp. 501, 504, 514.)
From "The Buccaneer."
=329.=
A sweet, low voice, in starry nights, Chants to his ear a 'plaining song; Its tones come winding up the heights, Telling of woe and wrong; And he must listen, till the stars grow dim, The song that gentle voice doth sing to him.
O, it is sad that aught so mild Should bind the soul with bands of fear; That strains to soothe a little child The man should dread to hear! But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace, unstrung The harmonious chords to which the angels sung.
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But he no more shall haunt the beach, Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown, Nor go the round of all that reach, Nor feebly sit him down, Watching the swaying weeds; another day, And he'll have gone far hence that dreadful way.
To-night the charméd number's told. "Twice have I come for thee," it said. "Once more, and none shall thee behold. Come, live one, to the dead!" So hears his soul, and fears the coming night, Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light.
Again he sits within that room; All day he leans at that still board; None to bring comfort to his gloom, Or speak a friendly word. Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse, Poor, shattered wretch, there waits he that pale horse.
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=Richard Henry Wilde, 1789-.= (Manual, pp. 521, 501.)