By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking:
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night drew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,

When, lo! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of water fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore;

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! Come back!" he cried in grief

Across this stormy water,

"And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter! oh, my daughter!"

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child.

And he was left lamenting.

-Campbell.

THE FORTUNATE ISLES.

You sail, and you seek for the Fortunate Isles,
The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song?
Then steer straight on through the watery miles,
Straight on, straight on and you can't go wrong.
Nay not to the left, nay not the right,

But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight,
The Fortunate Isles where the yellow birds sing,
And life lies girt with a golden ring.

These Fortunate Isles, they are not so far,
They lie within reach of the lowliest door;
You can see them gleam by the twilight star,
You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore-
Nay, never look back! Those leveled grave stones,
They were landing steps; they were steps unto thorns
Of glory for souls that have sailed before,

And have set white feet on the Fortunate Shore.

And what the names of the Fortunate Isles?
Why, Duty and Love and a large content.
Lo! these are the Isles of the watery miles,
That God let down from the firmament.

Lo! Duty, and Love, and a true man's trust;

Your forehead to God though your feet in the dust;
Lo! Duty, and Love, and a'sweet babe's smiles,
And these, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles.

-Joaquin Miller.

(Permission of the author, Whitaker & Ray Co., Publishers.)

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,

In a vale in the land of Moab
There lies a lonely grave.

And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod

And laid the dead man there,

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forthNoiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves;

So without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept, Silently down the mountain's crown The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle
On gray Beth-peor's height,
Out of his lonely eyrie

Looked on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking

Still shuns that hallowed spot,

For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow his funeral car;

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land
We lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marble drest,

In the great minster transept

Where lights like glories fall,

And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the truest warrior
That ever buckled sword,
This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, the truths so sage
As he wrote down for men,

And had he not high honor,-
The hillside for a pall,

To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall,

And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave?

In that strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again, O wondrous thought!
Before the judgment day,

And stand with glory wrapt around
On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life
With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave in Moab's land!

O dark Beth-peor's hill!

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.

God hath His mysteries of grace,

Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep

Of him He loved so well.

-Cecil Frances Alexander,

A SONG OF THE SOUTH.

Rhyme on, rhyme on, in reedy flow,
O river, rhymer ever sweet!
The story of thy land is meet;
The stars stand listening to know.

Rhyme on, O river of the earth!
Gray father of the dreadful seas,
Rhyme on! the world upon its knees
Invokes thy songs, thy wealth, thy worth.

Rhyme on! the reed is at thy mouth,
O kingly minstrel, mighty stream,
Thy Crescent City, like a dream,
Hangs in the heaven of my South.

Rhyme on! rhyme on! these broken strings
Sing sweetest in this warm south wind;
I sit thy willow banks and bind

A broken harp that fitful sings.

-Joaquin Miller.

(Permission of the author, Whitaker & Ray Co., Publishers.)

COLUMBUS.

Behind him lay the gray Azores,

Behind the Gates of Hercules;

Before him not the ghost of shores;

Before him only shoreless seas.

The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone.

Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?"
"Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!"

"My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly wan and weak."
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why, you shall say at break of day:
'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!""