SOFTLY it stole up out of the sea, The day that brought my dole to me; Slowly into the star-sown gray Dim and dappled it soared away.
Who would have dreamed such tender light Was brimming over with bale and blight? Who would have dreamed that fitful breeze Fanned from the tumult of tossing seas? Oh, softly and slowly stole up from the sea The day that brought my dole to me.
Glad was I at the open door, While my footfall lingered along the floor, For three bright heads at that dawn of day Close on the self-same pillow lay; Three dear mouths I bent and kissed As the gold and rose and amethyst Of the eastern sky was round us spread; And three little happy faces sped
To the dancing boat,—and he went too- And lightly the wind that morning blew.
Many a time had one and all
Gone out before to the deep-sea haul, Many a time come rowing back Against the tide of the Merrimack, With shining freight and a reddening sail Flapping loose in the idle gale;
While over them faded the evening glow, With stars above and with stars below, Trolling and laughing a welcome din To me and the warm shore making in.
Then why, that day, as I watched the boat, Did I remember the midnight rote That rolled a signal across my sleep
Of the storm that rolled from deep to deep, Plunging along in its eager haste Across the desert and desolate waste, Far off through the heart of the gray mid seas To rob me forever of all my ease?
Oh, I know not; I only know
That sound was the warning of my woe.
For lo, as I looked, I saw the mist Over the channel curl and twist, And blot the breaker out of sight
Where its angry horn gored the waters white. Only a sea-turn, I heard them say, That the climbing sun will burn away; Bnt I saw it silently settling down
Like an ashen pall upon the town.
"Oh, hush!" I cried; "'tis some huge storm's rack, And I know my darlings will never come back."
All day I stood on the old sea-wall Watching the great swell rise and fall,
And the spume and spray drove far and thin,
But never a sail came staggering in.
And out of the east a wet wind blew,
And over my head the foam-flakes flew; Down came the night without a star; Loud was the cry of the raging bar; And I wrung my hands and called and prayed, And the black, wild east all answer made.
Oh, long ere the cruel night was done Came the muffled toll of the minute gun. Nothing it meant to me, I knew, Save that other women were waiting too, For many the craft that cast away
On the shoals of the long Plum Island lay, Wrecked and naked, a hungry horde
Of fierce white surges leaping aboard, And bale and bundle came up from the sea, But nothing ever came back to me.
And through every pool where the full tides toss
I search for some lock of curling floss. Yet still in my window, night by night, The little candle is burning bright. For, oh, if I suddenly turned to meet My darling coming with flying feet, While I, in the place they left me, sat, No greater marvel 'twould be than that When so softly, slowly stole from the sea The day that brought my dole to me.
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
UPON the shore stood friends,
Who gazed upon the barque and little crew Till all had faded in the golden west, And darkness settled on the lonely sea. Then whispered they, with voices low and sad, "Will they return to vine-clad Spain, their home, Or perish in some far-off clime alone?" Far o'er the sea the little vessel passed Till all grew tired of the moaning waves, And at the dismal creaking of the masts, The hollow beating of the sails; they turned Their longing eyes far o'er the restless sea, And thought of home, and friends, and vine-clad Spain.
In dreams the tender voice of Philomel
Their souls did soothe, and wandered 'neath the
With love-lit eyes, fair maids, whose silvery laugh Stole o'er the slumbering sense like music sweet. PHILLIPS STEWART.
OLD AND YOUNG. I.
THEY soon grow old who grope for gold In marts where all is bought and sold: Who hire for self and on some shelf In darkened vaults hoard up their pelf, Cankered and crusted o'er with mold. For them their youth itself is old.
They ne'er grow old who gather gold Where Spring awakes and flowers unfold; Where suns arise in joyous skies, And fill the soul within their eyes. For them the immortal bards have sung: For them old age itself is young.
CHRISTOPHER PEASE CRANCH
IN GOD'S ACRE. I.
THOU art alive, O grave,- Thou with thy living grass, Blown of all winds that pass,- Thou with thy daisies white, Dewy at morn and night,- Thou on whose granite stone Greenly the moss has grown,— Thou on whose holy mound, Through the whole summer round, Sweetly the roses thrive,- Thou art alive!
O grave, thou art alive!
Answer me then, O grave,- Yea, from thy living bloom Speak to me, O green tomb,- Say if the maid I know, Sepulchred here below,- Say if the sweet white face, Hidden in this dark place,- Say if the hair of gold Buried amid thy mould,- Say, O thou grave, her bed,-
Is my love dead?
O say, are the dead dead?
With "Laws of Whist," and those of Libel, And Euclid, and the Mormon Bible.
And some are dear as friends, and some We keep because we need them; And some we ward from worm and thumb, And love too well to read them. My own are poor and mostly new, But I've an Elzevir or two.
That as a gift is prized, the next For trouble in the finding; This Aldine for its early text,
That Plantin for the binding; This sorry Herrick hides a flower, The record of one perfect hour.
But whether it be worth or looks We gently love or strongly, Such virtue doth reside in books We scarce can love them wrongly; To sages an eternal school, A hobby (harmless) to the fool.
Nor altogether fool is he
Who orders, free from doubt, Those books which "no good library Should ever be without,"
And blandly locks the well-glazed door On tomes that issue never more.
Less may we scorn his cases grand, Where safely, surely linger
Fair virgin fields of type, unscanned
And innocent of finger.
There rest, preserved from dust accurst, The first editions—and the worst.
And least of all should we that write
With easy jest deride them,
Who hope to leave when "lost to sight" The best of us inside them,
Dear shrines! where many a scribbler's name Has lasted-longer than his fame.
TRUE there are books and books. There's Gray, For instance, and there's Bacon; There's Longfellow, and Monstrelet, And also Colton's "Lacon,"
IN THE CLOISTERS, WINCHESTER
(Suggested by the sight of a boy's gravestone.)
How broad the gulf which delving Time hath made
Between those happy living and these dead.
Two things are ever with us, youth and deathThe Faun that pipes, and Pluto unbeguiled; From age to age still plays the eternal child,
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