Sonnet: On The Sea

by


    It keeps eternal whisperings around
    Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
    Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
    Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
    Often 'tis in such gentle temper found
    That scarcely will the very smallest shell
    Be mov'd for days from whence it sometime fell,
    When last the winds of heaven were unbound.
    Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vex'd and tir'd,
    Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;
    Oh ye! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude,
    Or fed too much with cloying melody,
    Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood
    Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quir'd!
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