"To the shore Follow! O, follow!

To be at rest forevermore ! Forevermore !"

Look how the gray old Ocean
From the depth of his heart rejoices,
Heaving with a gentle motion,
When he hears our restful voices ;
List how he sings in an undertone,
Chiming with our melody;

And all sweet sounds of earth and air
Melt into one low voice alone,
That murmurs over the weary sea,
And seems to sing from everywhere,
"Here mayst thou harbor peacefully,
Here mayst thou rest from the aching
oar;

Turn thy curved prow ashore, And in our green isle rest forevermore ! Forevermore !"

And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep,

Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, "Evermore !

Thus, on Life's weary sea,
Heareth the marinere
Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing low and clear,
Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be,
Than to be toiling late and soon?
In the dreary night to see
Nothing but the blood-red moon
Go up and down into the sea;
Or, in the loneliness of day,

To see the still seals only
Solemnly lift their faces gray,

Making it yet more lonely?
Is it not better than to hear
Only the sliding of the wave
Beneath the plank, and feel so near
A cold and lonely grave,

A restless grave, where thou shalt lie
Even in death unquietly?

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark,
Lean over the side and see

The leaden eye of the sidelong shark
Upturned patiently,

Ever waiting there for thee:
Look down and see those shapeless forms,
Which ever keep their dreamless sleep
Far down within the gloomy deep,
And only stir themselves in storms,
Rising like islands from beneath,

And snorting through the angry spray,
As the frail vessel perisheth
In the whirls of their unwieldy play;
Look down! Look down!
Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark,
That waves its arms so lank and brown,
Beckoning for thee!

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark
Into the cold depth of the sea!
Look down! Look down!

Thus, on Life's lonely sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sad, from far and near,
Ever singing full of fear,
Ever singing drearfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream;
The wind scarce shaketh down the dew,
The green grass floweth like a stream
Into the ocean's blue;

Far down into her large and patient eyes
I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite,
As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night,
I look into the fathomless blue skies.

So circled lives she with Love's holy light,

That from the shade of self she walketh free;

The garden of her soul still keepeth she
An Eden where the snake did never enter;
She hath a natural, wise sincerity,
A simple truthfulness, and these have lent
her

A dignity as moveless as the centre ;
So that no influence of earth can stir
Her steadfast courage, nor can take away
The holy peacefulness, which night and
day,

Unto her queenly soul doth minister.

Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear; And, though herself not unacquaint with

care,

Hath in her heart wide room for all that be,

Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, But open is as eglantine full blown. Cloudless forever is her brow serene, Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence

Welleth a noiseless spring of patience, That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green And full of holiness, that every look, The greatness of her woman's soul revealing,

Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling As when I read in God's own holy book.

A graciousness in giving that doth make The small'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek

Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak

Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake;

The deep religion of a thankful heart, Which rests instinctively in Heaven's clear law

With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness ;· - a holy awe For holy things,

- not those which men

call holy, But such as are revealed to the eyes

lowly

Before the face of daily mysteries ; —
A love that blossoms soon, but ripens
slowly

To the full goldenness of fruitful prime,
Enduring with a firmness that defies
All shallow tricks of circumstance and
time,

By a sure insight knowing where to cling,
And where it clingeth never withering;-
These are Irené's dowry, which no fate
Can shake from their serene, deep-builded

The world is happy, the world is wide,
Kind hearts are beating on every side;
Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled
Alone in the shell of this great world?
Why should we any more be alone?
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

O, 't is a bitter and dreary word,
The saddest by man's ear ever heard!
We each are young, we each have a heart,
Why stand we ever coldly apart?
Must we forever, then, be alone?
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

Of thy sparkling, light content,
A little of thy merriment,
Give me, my cheerful brook, -
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
That I may still be full of glee
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;

Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet !
Some of thy modesty,

That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,
O, give, to strengthen me.

MY LOVE.

I.

NOT as all other women are
Is she that to my soul is dear;
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening-star,
And yet her heart is ever near.

II.

Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,
And sweet they are as any tone
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

III.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair;

SUMMER STORM.

UNTREMULOUS in the river clear, Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge;

So still the air that I can hear The slender clarion of the unseen midge ; Out of the stillness, with a gathering

creep,

Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases,

Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases,

The huddling trample of a drove of sheep

Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases

In dust on the other side; life's emblem deep,

A confused noise between two silences, Finding at last in dust precarious peace. On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses

Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming tide,

Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes

Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous

glide

Wavers the long green sedge's shade from side to side;

But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge,

Climbs a great cloud edged with sunwhitened spray;

Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge,

And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway.