I fain would be thy pupil, mighty Deep!
Yet speak thou gently to me, for I fear
Thy liquid terror, and I would not learn
The lesson that doth make the mariner
So deadly pale. My mother Earth doth teach
An easy lore. She likes to speak of man.
Her levell'd mountains and her cultured vales,
Town, tower, and temple, and triumphal arch,
All speak of man, and moulder while they speak.
But of whose architecture and design
Tell thine eternal fountains, when they rise
To combat with the clouds, or when they fall?
Of whose strong culture speak thy sunless plants,
And groves and gardens, which no mortal eye
Hath seen and lived? What sculptor's art hath wrought
Those coral monuments and tombs of pearl,
Where sleeps the sea-boy, mid a pomp that earth
Denies her buried kings? Whose science stretch'd
The simplest line to curb thy monstrous tide,
And, writing, 'Hither,to' upon the sand,
Bade thy mad surge respect it? From whose loom
Comes forth thy drapery, that ne'er waxeth oid?
Who hath thy keys, thou deep? Who taketh note
Of all thy wealth? Who numbereth the host
That make their bed with thee? What eye cloth scan
Thy secret annal, from creation lock'd
Fast in those dark, illimitable cells,
Which he who visited hath ne'er return'd
To commune with the living? One reply!
Do all thine echoing depths and tossing waves
Make but one answer? of that One Dread Name
Which he who deepest graves within his heart
Is wisest, though the world may call him fool?
Therefore I come, a listener to thy voice,
And bow me at thy feet, and touch my lip
To thy cool billow, if perchance my soul,
That fleeting wanderer on these shores of time,
May, by thy voice instructed, learn of God.