The time must come when this coast will be a place of resort for those New-Englanders who really wish to visit the seaside. At pre...sent it is wholly unknown to the fashionable world, and probably it will never be agreeable to them. If it is merely a ten-pin alley, or a circular railway, or an ocean of mint-julep, that the visitor is in search of,--if he thinks more of the wine than the brine, as I suspect some do at Newport,--I trust that for a long time he will be disappointed here. But this shore will never more be more attractive than it is now. Such beaches as are fashionable are here made and unmade in a day, I may almost say, by the sea shifting its sands. Lynn and Nantasket! this bare and bended arm it is that makes the bay in which they lie so snugly. What are springs and waterfalls? Here is the spring of springs, the waterfall of waterfalls. A storm in the fall or winter is the time to visit it; a lighthouse or fisherman's hut, the true hotel. A man may stand there and put all America behind him.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
And such the trust that still were mine, Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine,... Or though the tempest's fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death. In ocean cave, still safe with Thee The germ of immortality! And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou tak'st from me. When thou cam'st first,... Thou strok'st me and made much of me, wouldst give me Water with berries in 't, and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night. And then I loved thee And showed thee all the qualities o' th' isle, The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place and fertile. Cursed be I that did so! All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! For I am all the subjects that you have, Which first was mine own king; and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o' the' island.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
We've cracked the hemispheres with careless hand! Now, from the Gates of Hercules we flood...
Westward, westward till the barbarous brine Whelms us to the tired world where tasseling corn, Fat beans, grapes sweeter than muscadine Rot on the vine: in the land were we born.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Now, from the Gates of Hercules we flood Westward, westward till the barbarous brine... Whelms us to the tired land where tasseling corn, Fat beans, grapes sweeter than muscadine Rot on the vine: in that land were we born.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »