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There you lie, O Ship, to-day, In the sand-bar stiff and gray! You who proudly sailed away

From the splendid town.

Now the ocean's bitter cup

Meets your trembling lip;
Now your gilded halls look up

From Disaster's grip.
Ruin's nets around you weave;
But I have no time to grieve;
I will promptly, I believe,
Build another ship.



Out upon the unknown deep,

Where the unheard oceans sound, Where the unseen islands sleep,

Outward bound.
Following towards the silent west

O’er the horizon's curved rim,-
Or to islands of the blest,
-He with me and I with him-

Outward bound.

Nothing but a speck we seem

In the waste of waters round,
Floating, floating like a dream,-

Outward bound.
But within that tiny speck

Two brave hearts with one accord
Past all tumult, grief, and wreck,
Look up calm,--and praise the Lord, -
Outward bound.



Thu's I heard a poet say,

As he sang in merry glee, “Ah!’t will be a golden day,

When my ship comes o'er the sea!

“I do know a cottage fine,

As a poet's house should be, And the cottage shall be mine,

When my ship comes o'er the se


Ye come from over the seas, With every sail full spread

To the glad, rejoicing breeze! Ye come from the dusky East,

Ye come from the golden West, As birds that out of the far blue sky

Fly each to its sheltered nest.

All spoils of the earth ye bring ;

From the isles of far Cathay,
From the fabled shores of the Orient,

And realms more rich than they.
The prisoned light of a thousand gems,

The gleam of the virgin gold,
Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl,

Shut up in the narrow hold.

Shawls from the looms of Ispahan ;

Ivory white as milk;
Shimmer of satin and rare brocade,

And fold upon fold of silk ;
Gauzes that India's maidens wear ;

Spices, and rare perfumes ;
Fruits that hold in their honeyed cups

The wealth of the summer blooms.

The blood of a thousand vines ;

The cotton's drifted snow; The fragrant heart of the precious woods

That deep in the tropics grow;
The strength of the giant hills ;

The might of the iron ore ;
The golden corn, and the yellow wheat,

From earth's broad threshing-floor.

Yet, O ye beautiful ships!

There are ships that come not back,
With flying pennant and swelling sail,

Over yon shining track!
Who can reckon their precious stores,

Or measure the might have been ?
Who can tell what they held for us-
The ships that will ne'er come in ?

JULIA C. R. Door.


SANK a palace in the sea,

When my ship went down;
Friends whose hearts were gold to me-
Gifts that ne'er again can be

'Neath the waters brown.

“I do know a maiden fair,

Fair, and fond, and dear to me, And we'll be a wedded pair,

When my ship comes o'er the sea!

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LEFT ASHORE. 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.

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.


AT SEA. 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

moon, With love-lit eyes, fair maids, whose silvery laugh Stole o'er the slumbering sense like music sweet.


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."


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.


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.


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.


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?


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.


DE LIBRIS. 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,"


COLLEGE. (Suggested by the sight of a boy's gravestore.) 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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