The Inn at Genoa

It is the sea, it is the sea,In all its vague immensity,Fading and darkening in the distance!Silent, majestical, and slow,The white ships haunt it to and fro,With all their ghostly sails unfurled,As phantoms from another worldHaunt the dim confines of existence!But ah! how few can comprehendTheir signals, or to what good endFrom land to land they come and go!Upon a sea more vast and darkThe spirits of the dead embark,All voyaging to unknown coasts.We wave our farewells from the shore,And they depart, and come no more,Or come as phantoms and as ghosts.

Above the darksome sea of deathLooms the great life that is to be,A land of cloud and mystery,A dim mirage, with shapes of menLong dead and passed beyond our ken,Awe-struck we gaze, and hold our breathTill the fair pageant vanisheth,Leaving us in perplexity,And doubtful whether it has beenA vision of the world unseen,Or a bright image of our ownAgainst the sky in vapors thrown.

LUCIFER, singing from the sea.Thou didst not make it, thou canst not mend it,But thou hast the power to end it!The sea is silent, the sea is discreet,Deep it lies at thy very feet;There is no confessor like unto Death!Thou canst not see him, but he is near;Thou needst not whisper above thy breath,And he will hear;He will answer the questions,The vague surmises and suggestions,That fill thy soul with doubt and fear!

The fisherman, who lies afloat,With shadowy sail, in yonder boat,Is singing softly to the Night!But do I comprehend arightThe meaning of the words he sungSo sweetly in his native tongue?Ah yes! the sea is still and deep.All things within its bosom sleep!A single step, and all is o'er;A plunge, a bubble an no more;And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be freeFrom martyrdom and agony.

ELSIE, coming from her chamber upon the terrace.The night is calm and cloudless,And still as still can be,And the stars come forth to listenTo the music of the sea.They gather, and gather, and gather,Until they crowd the sky,And listen, in breathless silence,To the solemn litany.It begins in rocky caverns,As a voice that chants aloneTo the pedals of the organIn monotonous undertone;And anon from shelving beaches,And shallow sands beyond,In snow-white robes uprisingThe ghostly choirs respond.And sadly and unceasingThe mournful voice sings on,And the snow-white choirs still answerChriste eleison!

Angel of God! thy finer sense perceivesCelestial and perpetual harmonies!Thy purer soul, that trembles and believes,Hears the archangel's trumpet in the breeze,And where the forest rolls, or ocean heaves,Cecilia's organ sounding in the seas,And tongues of prophets speaking in the leaves.But I hear discord only and despair,And whispers as of demons in the air!