I saw the surf that upward threw
    Gray pyramids of foam to heaven;
      I heard the battle-cry that flew
    Along the cliff, as though t’were given
      To cheer the elemental war;
    I heard the wild bird screaming near;
      I felt the rock beneath me jar,
    As if the granite thrilled with fear;
      I saw, I heard,—­yet in my heart
    The cloud, the cliff, the billow seemed
      As of myself an imaged part,—­
    Things I had seen, or oft had dreamed;
      And in my ear, the thundering tide
    Was music, and the ocean’s moan
      An echo of my spirit, wide
    As the wave, and stormy as its own.

XI.

      “So passed my morning dreams away,
    Like birds that shun a wintry cloud,
      And phantom visions, grim and gray,
    Came mist-like from the watery shroud: 
      Prophetic visions of the deep,
    Emblems of those within the breast,
      Which, summoned from their shadowy sleep,
    Ride on the storm by passion pressed! 
      In ghastly shapes they rose to view,
    All gibbering from their crystal caves,
      As if some horrid mirth they drew
    From the wild uproar of the waves. 
      With beckoning hands they seemed to urge
    My footsteps down the dizzy way,
      To join their train upon the surge,
    And dance with them amidst the spray: 
      And such the madness of my brain,
    That I was fain to seek the throng;
      To meet and mingle on the main,
    With their mad revelry and song. 
      One step, and down the dizzy cliff,
    My form had to the waters swung,
      But gliding in a wreathy skiff,
    That o’er the crested billows hung,
      A white form like my mother seemed
    To shine a moment on my eye;—­
      With warning look the vision gleamed,
    Then vanished upward to the sky!

XII.

      “I left the thundering tide, and sought
    Once more the mountain and the stream;
      But long the wrestling ocean wrought
    Within my bosom:  as a dream
      My boyhood vanished, and I woke
    Startled to manhood’s early morn;
      No father’s hand my pride to yoke,
    No mother’s angel voice to warn. 
      No,—­and the gentle vision, lost,
    That once could curb my wayward will,
      And lull my bosom passion-tossed,
    With one soft whisper, “Peace, be still!”—­
      That vision, spurned by manhood’s pride,
    Came down from heaven to me no more,
      And I was launched without a guide,
    To be a wreck on passion’s shore. 
      Alas! the giddy bark at sea,
    ’Mid waves that woo it down to death,
      From helm and compass wafted free,
    The toy of every tempest’s breath,—­
      Is but a type