XLVII.

And as they flow they breathe upon the air
An odour strengthening, which had not been
Except the sea waves shone and glittered there.
No unbrined waters roll these hills between,
For, by their constant forth and backward motion,
They tell their kinship to the mighty ocean.

Roll, roll, great Pacific, roll!
Ten thousands of years with their joys and their fears,
Thy billows cannot control.
Still roll, Pacific, roll!

Toss, toss, great Pacific, toss!
For the hunter of seal, whose woe is thy weal,
And whose gain is thine only loss.
Still toss, Pacific, toss!

Foam, foam, great Pacific, foam!
On thy rock-bound coast the wild Indians boast
Thy mountains, not thee, their home.
Still foam, Pacific, foam!

Surge, surge, great Pacific, surge!
Though the mariners hear, with prophetical fear,
In thy surging their deathly dirge.
Still, surge, Pacific, surge!

Roar, roar, great Pacific, roar!
For the gold-hunter's breast is in wilder unrest
Than the billows that lash thy shore.
Still roar, Pacific, roar!

Moan, moan, great Pacific, moan!
For the Inca of old, with his treasures untold,
From Peruvian shores is gone.
Still moan, Pacific, moan!

Wave, wave, mild Pacific, wave!
On the light, sandy bar of thine islands afar,
In banana-tree grove is the old tale of love
Still told by the dusky brave.
Wave gently, Pacific, wave!

XLVIII.

I know not what it was that bade me seek
A letter from my Love. She promised not
To write to me, nor did I ever speak
Of that sad sorrow which would be my lot
In wandering alone and friendless here,
And hearing nought from her so fondly dear.

XLIX.

But some small quiet voice, scarce listened to,
Enforced by its importunate command
This tardy recognition, sooner due;
And having sought a letter, now I stand
And hold in trembling hand the paper she
Has held, and written on so daintily.

L.

To read her words beneath the public eye
Were desecration. I must seek a spot
Where I alone can commune quietly
With her, and where the vulgar gaze is not.
Then let me seek the free and open air,
And read my loved one's words of greeting there.

LI.

What writes my Love? Ah Love! thou hast been ill.
Dread fever laid thee low when I had gone,
And I was not beside thee--by his will
Except for whom thou now had'st been my own.
And, though he be thy father, may my curse
Rest on him; and I would I could do worse.