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THE LIGHTHOUSE.

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,

And on its outer point, some miles away, The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,

A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. Even at this distance I can see the tides,

Upbeaving, break unheard along its base, A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides

In the white lip and tremor of the face. And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,

Through the deep purple of the twilight air, Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light

With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare! Not one alone; from each projecting cape

And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,

Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. Like the great giant Christopher, it stands

Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,

The night-o'ertaken mariner to saye.
And the great ships sail outward and return,

Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,

They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. They come forth from the darkness, and their sails

Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, And eager faces, as the light unveils,

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. The mariner remembers when a child,

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink; And when, returning from adventures wild,

He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same

Year after year, through all the silent night, Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame,

Shines on that inextinguishable light! It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,

And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.

The startled waves leap over it; the storm

Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,
And steadily against its solid form

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.
The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din

Of wings and winds and solitary cries,
Blinded and maddened by the light within,

Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.
A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,

Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,

But hails the mariner with words of love.
Sail on!" it says, “sail on, ye stately ships !

And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,

Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!”

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT.

SOUTHWARD with fleet of ice

“Do not fear ! Heaven is near," Sailed the corsair Death;

He said, “ by water as by land !" Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath.

In the first watch of the night,

Without a signal's sound, His lordly ships of ice

Out of the sea, mysteriously, Glistened in the sun;

The fleet of Death rose all around. On each side, like pennons wide, Flashing crystal streamlets run.

The moon and the evening star

Were banging in the shrouds ; His sails of white sea-mist

Every mast, as it passed, Dripped with silver rain ;

Seemed to rake the passing clouds But where he passed there were cast Leaden shadows o'er the main.

They grappled with their prize,

At midnight black and cold ! Eastward from Campobello

As of a rock was the shock ; Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; Heavily the ground-swell rolled. Tbree days or more seaward he bore, Then, alas ! the land-wind failed.

Southward through day and dark,

They drift in close embrace, Alas! the land-wind failed,

With mist and rain o'er the open main; And ice-cold grew the night;

Yet there seems no change of place. And never more, on sea or shore, Should Sir Humphrey see the light. Southward, for ever southward,

They drift through dark and day; He sat upon the deck,

And like a dream in the Gulf-stream The Book was in his hand;

Sinking, vanish all away.

THE SECRET OF THE SEA. Ag! what pleasant visions haunt me How he heard the ancient helmsman As I gaze upon the sea !

Chant a song so wild and clear, All the old romantic legends,

That the sailing sea-bird slowly
All my dreams, come back to me. Poised upon the mast to hear,
Sails of silk and ropes of sendal,

Till his soul was full of longing,
Such as gleam in ancient lore;

And he cried with impulse strong, — And the singing of the sailors,

“Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, And the answer from the shore !

Teach me, too, that wondrous song!”

“Wouldst thou," so the helmsman anMost of all, the Spanish ballad

swered, Haunts me oft, and tarries long,

“Learn the secrets of the sea ? Of the noble Count Arnaldos

Only those who brave its dangers
And the sailor's mystic song.

Comprehend its mystery !"
Like the long waves on a sea-beach, In each sail that skims the horizon,
Where the sand as silver shines,

In each landward-blowing breeze, With a soft monotonous cadence,

I behold that stately galley,
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ;-

Hear those mournful melodies ; Telling how the Count Arnaldos, Till my soul is full of longing With his hawk upon his hand,

For the secret of the sea,
Saw a fair and stately galley,

And the heart of the great ocean
Steering onward to the land ;-

Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

THE EVENING STAR.

Just above yon sandy bar,

| Chrysaor, rising out of the sea, As the day grows fainter and dimmer, Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, Lonely and lovely, a single star

Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. For ever tender, soft, and tremulous. Into the ocean faint and far

Thus o'er the ocean faint and far Palls the trail of its golden splen- Trailed the gleam of his falchiun dour,

brightly. And the gleam of that single star Is it a God, or is it a star,

Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. That, entranced, I gaze on nightly!

By the Fireside.

RESIGNATION.

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!.
The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapours;

Amid these earthly damps,
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no death! What seems so is transition.

This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead,—the child of our affection,

But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,

By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,

She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air;
Year after year her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;

For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child;
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace;
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

Shall we behold her face.
And though at times, impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,

That cannot be at rest,
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.

THE BUILDERS. ALL are architects of Pate,

Each minute and unseen part;
Working in these walls of Time;

For the Gods see everywhere.
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Let us do our work as well,

Both the unseen and the seen ; Nothing useless is, or low;

Make the house, where Gods may dwell, Each thing in its place is best ;

Beautiful, entire, and clean.
And what seems but idle show,
Strengthens and supports the rest.

Else our lives are incomplete,

Standing in these walls of Time, For the structure that we raise,

Broken stairways, where the feet
Time is with materials filled;

Stumble as they seek to climb.
Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.

Ruild to-day, then, strong and sure,

With a firm and ample base ;
Truly shape and fashion these ;

And ascending and secure
Leave no yawning gaps between; Shall to-morrow find its place.
Think not, because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen.

Thus alone can we attain

To those turrets, where the eye In the elder days of Art,

Sees the world as one vast plain, Builders wrought with greatest care, ! And one boundless reach of sky.

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