Richer am I than he who owns I freight them with my untold dreams, My ships that sail into the East Across that outlet blue. Sometimes they seem like living shapes- From Heaven, which is close by: I call them by familiar names, As one by one draws nigh, From violet mists they bloom! All souls find sailing room. The ocean grows a weariness 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, The waves are broken precious stones— Washed from celestial basement walls Out through the utmost gates of space, Yet loses not her anchorage In yonder azure rift. Here sit I, as a little child: The universe, O God, is home, 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 All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold, On somber wings the vulture tried his flight; The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew- His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest Where sung the noisy martins of the eaves, 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, She had known sorrow. He had walked with her, While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom; Re-gave the sword, but not the hand that drew Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 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, None have yet come home to me, I have seen them in my sleep, I have wondered why they strayed That their sails will ne'er be furled." Fill with fragrance all the air, Ah! each sailor in the port Knows that I have ships at sea, Rise and fall, rise and fall. |