Written At Sea Poem by John Bowring

When the bark by a gentle breath is driven,
And the bright sun dances in the heaven
Up and down, as the rocking boat
Upon the ridgy waves doth float-
And the fresh sea sprinkles the sloping deck,
And nought is seen but some snowy speck
On the distant verge-and the sky above,
And the waters around-'tis sweet to move
Gladly from one to another strand,
Guided by some invisible hand.
Gladly, aye! for him who leaves
No friend behind, who dreams, and grieves,
And dreads that every breezy breath
Is the wing'd charioteer of death.


Ah! that love is a fearful thing:
It hovers round on a vampire's wing;
Darkness is its abode-it dwells
In caverns and spectre-peopled cells;
'Tis wont to play with phantoms dread,
And wreathes the aconite round its head;
The desert and the grove it seeks,
And clouds are on its splendent cheeks;
And it sits in storms,-and builds its throne
In terror's dark pavilion;
And its bright and spirit-piercing eyes
Are shrouded in thick anxieties.


Onwards! onwards!-lo, we sweep
The heaving bosom of the deep,-
Freshens the wind!-how gay to ride
On the pinions of the eternal tide,
And to live, as it were, in life's excess,
'Midst the wild waters' frowardness!
It is as if life's currents too,
Driven by an impulse strange and new,
Roll'd with a swifter course,-partaking
Of the eager spirit round us waking.


But soon, too soon, the busy sea
Is still'd to us-reality
Waves over us her leaden wand;
We tread the dull and changeless land!
Our bark conducts us to the shore,
And the fresh breeze impels no more;
For us repose the joyous waves-
And we all slumber in our graves.


Thou Steerer of the storm! who guidest
Our little vessel-who dividest
The waves around us,-who hast spread
Heaven's canopy above our head,
And scatter'd thro' it gales of love,
To wast us to our port above;
Thou! whose omnipotent voice can still
The mighty ocean as the rill;
Thou! subject vast of praise and wonder,
Who in the breeze and in the thunder
Art heard alike-to Thee, O Friend!
O Father! I my lot commend.
And be it Thine, All-wise! as now,
A favouring passage to bestow
Through life's dark ocean-till the tomb
Receives us in its mighty womb,
Where we shall slumber till the day,
Of days the greatest, sends its ray
Into the gloom sepulchral-then
Shall the raised spirit live again,
And enter on a course which never
Can be disturb'd by vain endeavour,
Nor check'd by storms or billows dreary,-
Nor hearts despond-nor hopes be weary.