THIS is the ship
of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails
the unshadowed main,—
The venturous
bark that flings
On
the sweet summer wind
its purpled wings
In
gulfs enchanted, where
the Siren sings,
And coral
reefs lie bare,
Where
the cold sea-maids
rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its
webs of living gauze
no more unfurl;
Wrecked
is the ship of pearl!
And every
chambered cell,
Where
its dim dreaming life
was wont to dwell,
As
the frail tenant shaped
his growing shell,
Before
thee lies revealed,—
Its
irised ceiling rent,
its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year
after year beheld the
silent toil
That
spread his lustrous coil;
Still,
as the spiral grew,
He
left the past year's
dwelling for the new,
Stole
with soft step its
shining archway through,
Built
up its idle door,
Stretched
in his last-found
home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks
for the heavenly message
brought by thee,
Child
of the wandering sea,
Cast
from her lap, forlorn!
From
thy dead lips a clearer
note is born
Than
ever Triton blew from
wreathèd horn!
While
on mine ear it rings,
Through
the deep caves of
thought I hear a voice that sings:—
Build
thee more stately mansions,
O my soul,
As the
swift seasons roll!
Leave
thy low-vaulted past!
Let
each new temple, nobler
than the last,
Shut
thee from heaven with
a dome more vast,
Till
thou at length art free,
Leaving
thine outgrown shell
by life's unresting sea!
