The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o’er the land,
  Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.
Luria, Act i.  R. BROWNING.

  Thus, I steer my bark, and sail
  On even keel, with gentle gale.
The Spleen.  M. GREEN.

  What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore,
  Ships have been drowned, where late they danced before.
Safety on the Shore.  R. HERRICK.

  Through the black night and driving rain
  A ship is struggling, all in vain,
  To live upon the stormy main;—­
      Miserere Domine!
The Storm.  A.A.  PROCTER.

    But chief at sea, whose every flexile wave
  Obeys the blast, the aerial tumult swells. 
  In the dread Ocean undulating wide,
  Beneath the radiant line that girts the globe.
The Seasons:  Summer.  J. THOMSON.

  She comes majestic with her swelling sails,
    The gallant Ship:  along her watery way,
  Homeward she drives before the favoring gales;
    Now flirting at their length the streamers play,
  And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze.
Sonnet XIX.  R. SOUTHEY.

  Thou wert before the Continents, before
  The hollow heavens, which like another sea
  Encircles them and thee; but whence thou wert,
  And when thou wast created, is not known,
  Antiquity was young when thou wast old.
Hymn to the Sea.  R.H.  STODDARD.

  Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows. 
  Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean.
The Homeric Hexameter.  SCHILLER. Trans. of COLERIDGE.

SEASONS.

  SPRING.

    So forth issewed the Seasons of the yeare: 
    First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowres
    That freshly budded and new bloomes did beare,
    In which a thousand birds had built their bowres
    That sweetly sung to call forth paramours;
    And in his hand a javelin he did beare,
    And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)
    A guilt, engraven morion he did weare: 
    That, as some did him love, so others did him feare.
Faerie Queen, Bk.  VII.  E. SPENSER.

  The stormy March has come at last,
    With winds and clouds and changing skies;
  I hear the rushing of the blast
    That through the snowy valley flies.
March.  W.C.  BRYANT.

  March!  A cloudy stream is flowing,
  And a hard, steel blast is blowing;
    Bitterer now than I remember
  Ever to have felt or seen,
    In the depths of drear December,
  When the white doth hide the green.
March, April, May.  B.W.  PROCTER (Barry Cornwall).

  A gush of bird-song, a patter of dew,
    A cloud, and a rainbow’s warning,
  Suddenly sunshine and perfect blue—­
    An April day in the morning.
April.  H.P.  SPOFFORD.