Pebbles

by Herman Melville

　　

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IThough the Clerk of the Weather insist, And lay down the weather-law,Pintado and gannet they wistThat the winds blow whither they list In tempest or flaw.IIOld are the creeds, but stale the schools, Revamped as the mode may veer,But Orm from the schools to the beaches straysAnd, finding a Conch hoar with time, he delays And reverent lifts it to ear.That Voice, pitched in far monotone, Shall it swerve? shall it deviate ever?The Seas have inspired it, and Truth— Truth, varying from sameness never.IIIIn hollows of the liquid hills Where the long Blue Ridges run,The flattery of no echo thrills, For echo the seas have none;Nor aught that gives man back man's strain—The hope of his heart, the dream in his brain.IVOn ocean where the embattled fleets repair,Man, suffering inflictor, sails on sufferance there.VImplacable I, the old Implacable Sea: Implacable most when most I smile serene—Pleased, not appeased, by myriad wrecks in me.VICurled in the comb of yon billow Andean, Is it the Dragon's heaven-challenging crest?Elemental mad ramping of ravening waters— Yet Christ on the Mount, and the dove inVIIHealed of my hurt, I laud the inhuman Sea—Yea, bless the Angels Four that there convene;For healed I am ever by their pitiless breathDistilled in wholesome dew named rosmarine.

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