The Rhode Islander

Poetry.

Lines written upon a Sea-Gull.
BY LORD MORPETH.

Fly on, fly on, thou noble bird,
What hand could aim against thy life,
When you so nobly brave the storm,
And gather pleasure in the strife;
Fly on, fly on, and boundless roam
Far, far o'er thine own lake and sea,
Since their high waves thou mak'st thy home,
Since their fierce storms are bliss to thee.
But stop, oh stop! I pray thee tell,
(If aught of good be in the tale,)
What impulse makes thee kiss the swell,
And why you court the rising gale—
For oh I feel, when fate doth bring
Its storms upon life's troubled sea,
Twould be a glorious, happy thing,
Could we but brave those storms like thee.
Then pr'ythee tell, when storms o'ercast,
When hearts and hands begin to fail,
When cares that first but blew a blast
Has risen quite to blow a gale—
Oh tell us how with hearts as light
As seem thy will, thy wing, thy form,
How we may live in such a night,
How we may brave out such a storm.
When slander's tongue, in arts employ
To blight a virtuous, honest name,
When envy's hand would smite the boy
Who seeks to gain a living fame—
Oh tell them how such storms to brave,
For much they need thy magic tale,—
Already are they on the wave,
Already yield they to the gale.
And when sore poor and honest man
Is struggling manful 'gainst his fate,
Or when some youth has formed a plan
(And hard's his task!) to rise, be great,
Or when some tender heart's exposed
To vile temptation's gilded form,
Oh teach them how such gales opposed!
And how to live out such a storm!
Or should some noble, free-born band
E'er say or hope that free they'll be,
Or should some despot's iron hand
E'er tempt to grasp and bind the free—
Oh pr'ythee tell them then thy tale,
How wide you roam, how far you range,
How you oppose the fiercest gale,
And yet you never, never change.
And 't seems to me that 'twould be sweet,
When malice swells its hideous form,
When all the perils deign to meet,
Or envious critics raise a storm—
That 'twould be sweet to learn from thee,
How unconcerned we then might sail,
Or how to ride this troubled sea,
And laugh at all the furious gale.

Head of Lake Ontario. June, 1842.