SEA-MAGIC

My heart faints in me for the distant sea.

The roar of London is the roar of ire

The lion utters in his old desire

For Libya out of dim captivity.

The long bright silver of Cheapside I see,

Her gilded weathercocks on roof and spire

Exulting eastward in the western fire;

All things recall one heart-sick memory:—

Ever the rustle of the advancing foam,

The surges’ desolate thunder, and the cry

As of some lone babe in the whispering sky;

Ever I peer into the restless gloom

To where a ship clad dim and loftily

Looms steadfast in the wonder of her home.