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Go, ride the billows, sweep before the wind, And say, this is the mastery of the mind: I gave those planks their shape to cut the seas I taught that canvass how to catch the breeze, I guide the helm which tracks the pathless brine, The work of my own hands, the ship is mine. 'Tis early evening, round the sinking sun, The shadowy clouds have gather'd one by one, The waves are running high, and o'er them sweep The spectral seabirds, phantoms of the deep, Over their pale white wings the surges break; And with the wild wind blends their wilder shriek. The mighty tempest rushes o'er the main With thunder, and with lightning, and with rain. The strong ship trembles; to the deep they throw The thunder that was destined for the foe. The tall mast falls, as once before it fell, When came the woodman to the forest dell. In vain the billows whelm the sinking prow; O, man, art thou the lord of ocean now? But let us trace Him in some milder form Than the dread lessons of the sea and storm; It is the end of March, and, over earth, Sunshine is calling beauty into birth. There is a fragrance on the soft warm air; For many the sweet breaths now floating there. The snowdrop is departed, that pale child, Which at the spring's bright coming seems exiled,