Edward Young

Here you will find the Long Poem Ocean: An Ode. Concluding with A wish.* of poet Edward Young

Ocean: An Ode. Concluding with A wish.*

 Sweet rural scene! 
 Of flocks and green! 
At careless ease my limbs are spread; 
 All nature still 
 But yonder rill; 
And listening pines not o'er my head: 
 In prospect wide, 
 The boundless tide! 
Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar; 
 Without a breeze, 
 The curling seas 
Dance on, in measure, to the shore. 
 Who sings the source 
 Of wealth and force? 
Vast field of commerce and big war: 
 Where wonders dwell! 
 Where terrors swell! 
And Neptune thunders from his car? 
 Where? where are they, 
 Whom Pean's ray 
Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave? 
 What, none aspire? 
 I snatch the lyre, 
And plunge into the foaming wave. 
 The wave resounds! 
 The rock rebounds! 
The Nereids to my song reply! 
 I lead the choir, 
 And they conspire 
With voice and shell to lift it high; 
 They spread in air 
 Their bosoms fair; 
Their verdant tresses pour behind. 
 The billows beat 
 With nimble feet, 
With notes triumphant swell the wind. 
 Who love the shore, 
 And they conspire 
With voice and shell to lift it high; 
 Let those adore 
 The God Apollo, and his Nine, 
 Parnassus' hill, 
 And Orpheus' skill; 
But let Arion's harp be mine. 
 The main! the main! 
 Is Britain's reign; 
Her strength, her glory, is her fleet; 
 The main! the main! 
 Be Briton's strain; 
As Triton's strong, as Syren's sweet. 
 Through nature wide, 
 Is nought descry'd 
So rich in pleasure, or surprize; 
 When all-serene 
 How sweet the scene! 
How dreadful, when the billows rise. 
 And storms deface 
 The fluid glass 
In which ere-while Britannia fair 
 Look'd down with pride, 
 Like Ocean's bride, 
Adjusting her majestic air. 
 When tempests cease, 
 And hush'd in peace 
The flatten'd surges smoothly spread 
 Deep silence keep, 
 And seem to sleep 
Recumbent on their oozy bed; 
 With what a trance 
 The level glance, 
 Unbroken, shoots along the seas! 
 Whichtempt from shore 
 the painted oar; 
And every canvas courts the breeze! 
 When rushes forth 
 The frowning North 
On blackening billows, with what dread 
 My shuddering soul 
 Beholds them roll, 
And hears their roarings o'er my head! 
 With terror mark 
 Yon flying bark! 
Now, center-deep descend the brave; 
 Now, toss'd on high 
 It takes the sky, 
A feather on the towering wave!
 Now, spins around 
 In whirls profound; 
Now, whelm'd; now, pendant near the clouds; 
 Now, stunn'd, it reels 
 Midst thunder's peals; 
And, now, fierce lightening fires the shrouds.
 All aether burns! 
 Chaos returns! 
And blends once more the seas and skies; 
 No space between 
 Thy bosom green, 
O Deep! and the blue concave, lies. 
 The northern blast, 
 The shatter'd mast, 
 The fyrt, the whirlpool, and the rock, 
 The breaking spout, 
 the stars gone out, 
The boiling sreight, the monsters shock. 
 Let others fear; 
 To Britain dear 
What'er promotes her daring claim; 
 Those terrors charm, 
 Which keep her warm 
In chace of honest gain or fame. 
 The stars are bright 
 To chear the night, 
And shed, through shadows, temper'd fire; 
 And Phoebus flames 
 With burnish'd beams, 
Which some adore, and all admire. 
 Are then the seas 
 Outshone by these? 
Bright Thetys! thou art not outshone; 
 With kinder beams 
 And softer gleams, 
Thy bosom wears them as thy own 
 There, set in green, 
 Gold-stars are seen, 
A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap; 
 And when the sun 
 His race has run 
He falls enamour'd in thy lap. 
 Those clouds, whose dyes 
 Adorn the skies, 
 That silver snow, that pearly rain; 
 Has Phoebus stole 
 To grace the pole, 
The plunder of th' invaded main! 
 The gaudy bow, 
 Whose colours glow, 
Whose arch with so much skill is bent, 
 To Phoebus' ray 
 Which paints so gay, 
By thee the watery woof was lent. 
 In chambers deep, 
 Where waters sleep, 
What unknown treasures pave the floor! 
 The pearl in rows 
 Pale lustre throws; 
The wealth immense, which storms devour. 
 From Indian mines, 
 With proud designs, 
the merchant, swoin, digs golden ore. 
 The tempests rise, 
 And seize the prize, 
And toss him breathless on the shore.
 His son complains 
 In pious strains 
"Ah! cruel thirst of gold!" he cries; 
 Then ploughs the main, 
 In zeal for gain, 
The tears yet swelling in his eyes. 
 Thou watery vast! 
 What mounds are cast 
 To bar thy dreadful flowings-o'er? 
 Thy proudest foam 
 Must know its home;