Poems and Translations from the Ancient Celtic Bards

TO THE SEA.

When torturing hours do still unfold
Thy liquid waste of alpine mould: a poetic comparison of high, jagged sea waves to the cold, towering peaks of the Alps;
When anguish rends his stricken breast,
And grief and toil alike molest: to disturb, trouble, or harass;
And yet no cheering prospect nigh,
No kindred: sharing a common bond or feeling mourner wandering by,
And hope and pity almost gone,
And he must toil and weep alone;—
Then how thy wild laugh mocks his cry,—
His vain demand for sympathy!

In that dread hour, when to his sight,
Like warriors plumed: wearing feathers; here referring to the white foam at the "crest" of a wave for vengeful fight,
Thy mountain-waves come wildly on,
Deadly destructive, one by one,
Then fame and fortune he’d forego: to give up or relinquish,
Nay, murmur not at many a woe;
But O he’d have thee stay thy strife,
And spare his little span of life!

And when at length divides away
His beaten bark: a poetic term for a sailing ship—his cherished stay—
And he has felt that little space
Must bear him to thy cold embrace, The "cold embrace" is a common literary metaphor for drowning or death at sea.