HE crawls to the cliff and plays on a brink <br />Where every eye but his own would shrink; <br />No music he hears but the billow’s noise, <br />And shells and weeds are his only toys. <br />No lullaby can the mother find <br />To sing him to rest like the moaning wind; <br />And the louder it wails and the fiercer it sweeps, <br />The deeper he breathes and the sounder he sleeps. <br /> <br />And now his wandering feet can reach <br />The rugged tracks of the desolate beach; <br />Creeping about like a Triton imp, <br />To find the haunts of the crab and shrimp. <br />He clings, with none to guide or help, <br />To the furthest ridge of slippery kelp; <br />And his bold heart glows while he stands and mocks <br />The seamew’s cry on the jutting rocks. <br /> <br />Few years have wan’d—and now he stands <br />Bareheaded on the shelving sands. <br />A boat is moor’d, but his young hands cope <br />Right well with the twisted cable rope; <br />He frees the craft, she kisses the tide; <br />The boy has climb’d her beaten side: <br />She drifts—she floats—he shouts with glee; <br />His soul hath claim’d its right on the sea. <br /> <br />’T is vain to tell him the howling breath <br />Rides over the waters with wreck and death: <br />He ’ll say there ’s more of fear and pain <br />On the plague-ridden earth than the storm-lash’d main. <br />’T would be as wise to spend thy power <br />In trying to lure the bee from the flower, <br />The lark from the sky, or the worm from the grave, <br />As in weaning the Sea-Child from the wave.<br /><br />Eliza Cook<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sea-child/
