CLXXXII The Sea-Cave
Hardly we breathe, although the air be free:
How massively doth awful Nature pile
The living rock, like some cathedral aisle,
Sacred to Silence and the solemn Sea.
How that clear pool lies sleeping tranquilly, 5
And under its glassed waters seems to smile,
With many hues, a mimic grove the while
Of foliage submarine, shrub, flower, and tree.
Beautiful scene! and fitted to allure
The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid, 10
Who here, with her green tresses disarrayed,
’Mid the clear bath, unfearing and secure,
May sport at noontide in the caverned shade—
Cold as the shadow—as the waters pure.
Thomas Doubleday.