Truro, on Cape Cod

Oft would I tread that far-off, quiet shore,
And sit allayed with its unnoticed store.
What though nor fame nor hope my fancy fired,
Nor aught of that to which my youth aspired,
Nor woman's beauty, nor her friendly cheer,
That nourish life like some soft atmosphere?
For here I found I was a welcome guest
At generous Nature's hospitable feast.
The barren moors no fences girdled high, —
These endless beaches planting might defy, —
And the blue sea admitted all the air —
A cordial draught, so sparkling and so rare.
While there I wandered, — far and wide between, —
Proud of my salt expanse and country clean.
A few old fishers seemed my only men,
Some aged wives their queens, not seen till then;
Those had outsailed the wild, o'er-heaving seas,
These closely nestled in their old roof-trees.
Too dull to mark, they eyed me without harm;
Careless of alms, I was not their alarm.
The aged widow in her cottage lone,
Of solitude and musing patient grown,
Could let me wander o'er her scanty fields,
And pick the flower that contemplation yields.
Oft had she sat the winter storms away,
And feared the sea, and trembled at its play;
Noticed the clouds, and guessed when storms were nigh;
Like me, alone, far from humanity.

Her straw all plaited and her day's work done,
There as she sat she saw the reddening sun
Drop o'er the distant cape, and felt that May
Had outbid April for a sweeter day,
And dreamed of flowers and garden-work to do,
And half resolved, and half it kept in view.

This census o'er, and all the rest was mine.
The gliding vessel on the horizon's line,
That left the world wherein my fancy strayed,
Yet long enough her soft good-by delayed
To let my eye engross her beauty rare,
Kissed by the seas and mistress of the air.
That, too, was mine — the green and curling wave,
Child of the sand — a playful child and brave;
Urged by the breeze, the crashing surges fall —
Let zephyrs dance — and silken bubbles all;
But let the gale lift from yon Eastern realm —
No more the ship perceives the patient helm;
Tranced in the tumbling roar she whirls away,
A shattered ghost, a chip for thy dread play.
Wild ocean wave! some eyes look out o'er thee
And fill with tears, and ask, Could such things be?
Why slept the All-seeing Eye when death was near?
Be hushed each doubt, assuage each troubled fear!
Think One who made the sea and made the wind
May also feel for our poor humankind;
And they who sleep amid the surges tall
Summoned great Nature to their funeral,
And she obeyed. We fall not far from shore;
The seabird's wail, the skies our fates deplore;
The melancholy main goes sounding on
His world-old anthem o'er our horizon.
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