Richer am I than he who owns
Great fleets and argosies;
I have a share in every ship
Won by the inland breeze
To loiter on yon airy road
Above the apple-trees.

I freight them with my untold dreams,
Each bears my own picked crew;
And nobler cargoes wait for them
Than ever India knew---

My ships that sail into the East

Across that outlet blue.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes-
The people of the sky-
Guests in white raiment coming down

From Heaven, which is close by:

I call them by familiar names,

As one by one draws nigh,
So white, so light, so spirit-like,

From violet mists they bloom!
The aching wastes of the unknown
Are half reclaimed from gloom,
Since on life's hospitable sea

All souls find sailing room.

The ocean grows a weariness
With nothing else in sight;
Its east and west, its north and south,
Spread out from morn to night:
We miss the warm, caressing shore,
Its brooding shade and light.
A part is greater than the whole;
By hints are mysteries told ;
The fringes of eternity-

God's sweeping garment-fold,

In that bright shred of glimmering sea, I reach out for, and hold.

THE CLOSING SCENE.

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl,
Float in upon the mist;

The waves are broken precious stones—
Sapphire and amethyst

Washed from celestial basement walls
By suns unsetting kissed.

Out through the utmost gates of space,
Past where the gay stars drift,
To the widening Infinite, my soul
Glides on a vessel swift;

Yet loses not her anchorage

In yonder azure rift.

Here sit I, as a little child:
The threshold of God's door
Is that clear band of chrysoprase ;
Now the vast temple floor,
The blinding glory of the dome
I bow my head before:

The universe, O God, is home,
In height or depth to me;
Yet here upon thy footstool green
Content am I to be;

Glad when is opened to my need

Some sea-like glimpse of thee.

LUCY LARCOM.

The Closing Scene.

ITHIN the sober realms of leafless trees

WITHI

The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; Like some tanned reaper in his hours of ease,

When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

391

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed further and the stream sang low,
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter logs with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

On somber wings the vulture tried his flight;
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint,
And, like a star slow drowning in the light,

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint.

The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew-
Crew twice-and all was stiller than before;
Silent, till some replying warder blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young;
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
By every light wind like a censer swung;

Where sung the noisy martins of the eaves,
The busy swallows circling ever near—
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest and a plenteous year;

Where every bird that waked the vernal feast

Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,

To warn the reaper of the rosy east ;

All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn.

THE CLOSING SCENE.

Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail;

And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom; Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale,

Made echo to the distant cottage loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;

The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,

Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this, in this most dreary air,

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, Firing the floor with its inverted torch;

Amid all this--the center of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust,
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his thick mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom;
Her country summoned, and she gave her all
And twice War bowed to her his sable plume-
Re-gave the sword to rest upon the wall.

Re-gave the sword, but not the hand that drew
And struck for liberty the dying blow;

Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;

Long but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tone.

393

At last the thread was snapped-her head was bowed, Light drooped the distaff through her hand serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While death and winter closed the autumn scene. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

I

Ships at Sea.

HAVE ships that went to sea,
More than fifty years ago;

None have yet come home to me,
But are sailing to and fro.

I have seen them in my sleep,
Plunging through the shoreless deep,
With tattered sails and battered hulls,
While around them screamed the gulls,
Flying low, flying low.

I have wondered why they strayed
From me, sailing round the world;
And I've said, "I'm half afraid

That their sails will ne'er be furled."
Great the treasures that they hold,
Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold;
While the spices that they bear,

Fill with fragrance all the air,
As they sail, as they sail.

Ah! each sailor in the port

Knows that I have ships at sea,
Of the waves and winds the sport,
And the sailors pity me.
Oft they come and with me walk,
Cheering me with hopeful talk,
Till I put my fears aside,
And, contented, watch the tide

Rise and fall, rise and fall.