THE SONG OF THE SURF 



White steeds of ocean, that leap with a 

 hollow and wearisome roar 



On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom's 

 length from the shore, 



Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret 

 your wild refrain, 



When speech the harshest and roughest is 

 seldom studied in vain ? 



My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary 

 monotone. 



In a hieroglyphic 'tis written — 'tis spoken in 

 a tongue unknown ; 



Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surg- 

 ing, and shivering, say ! 



What is the tale you are telling ? What is 

 the drift of your lay ? 



You come, and your crests are hoary with the 

 foam of your countless years ; 



You break, with a rainbow of glory, through 

 the spray of your glittering tears. 



Is your song a song of gladness ? a paean of 

 joyous might ? 



Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs 



you never can right ? 

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