With hands unclasped, uncrossed, H. H. SONG. WE sail toward evening's lonely star, That trembles in the tender blue; One single cloud, a dusky bar, Burnt with dull carmine through and through, Slow smouldering in the summer sky, Lies low along the fading west; How sweet to watch its splendors die, Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed! The soft breeze freshens; leaps the spray Lighthouses kindle far and near, Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed. How like a dream are earth and heaven, A WET SHEET AND FLOWING SEA. 199 Oh, realize the moment's charm, Thou dearest! We are at life's best, Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed! CELIA THAXTER A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. AWET sheet and a flowing sea, wind that follows fast, That fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast, And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Oh for a soft and gentle wind! But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high, And white waves heaving high, my boys, And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud, — The wind is piping loud, my boys, Our heritage the sea. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THE SONG. HERE be none of beauty's daughters And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me; When, as if its sound were causing The waves lie still and gleaming, And the midnight moon is weaving So the spirit bows before thee, Like the swell of summer's ocean. BYRON. THE FISHING-SONG. 201 THE FISHING-SONG. DOWN in the wide, gray river The current is sweeping strong: Over the wide, gray river Floats the fisherman's song. The oar-stroke times the singing, Out of a deeper current The song brings back to me A cry from mortal silence Of mortal agony. Life that was spent and vanished, Hearts that are dead in living, I see the maples leafing Just as they leafed before; The green grass comes no greener With the rude strain, swelling, sinking, Yet the soul hath life diviner; But in echoes, that answer the minor And the ways of God are darkness ; ROSE TERRY. "BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.” BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. Oh, well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! Oh, well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill; But oh for the touch of a vanished hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. ALFRED TENNYSON. |