The Sea Is His

The sea is His; He made its blue ex­panse

And wrapped it like a man­tle round the globe;

An az­ure vel­vet

sheened with sun­shine’s glance

Ermined with white­caps like an em­press’ robe.

The sea is His; its roll­ing bil­lows swell

Their ber­yl bos­oms

laced with foamy snow

And in their cease­less psal­mo­dy they tell

What tides

like hu­man heart-throbs

heave be­low.

The sea is His; in wa­te­ry mount­ains whirled

Waked by His breath its waves as­sault the skies

Its thun­der­ing break­ers shake the sol­id world

And na­vies van­ish

con­quer­or and prize.

The sea is His; with­in its mir­rored calm

His white-cloud cha­ri­ots sweep a dou­ble sky

Its tem­pests slum­ber in His fold­ed palm

Its mon­sters gam­bol ’neath their mak­er’s eye.

The sea is His; its hymns its or­gan bass

Till na­ture’s an­them fills the vault­ed pole;

Or

float­ing soft as in­cense from a vase

Æolian ves­pers thrill the rav­ished soul.

The sea is His; a pave­ment for His throne;

An im­age of im­men­si­ty and might;

A shore­less

in­fi­nite abyss

un­known;

A gulf of splen­dor in a gulf of night.

The sea is His; but when His trump shall sound

Its trem­bling waves shall die along the shore

Its fright­ened floods shall shrink in caves pro­found

In that new earth there shall be sea no more.