NEAR SHORE. THE seas of thought are deep and wide; Let those who will, O friend of mine, Sail forth without a chart or guide Or plummet-line; A blank of waters all around,- An infinite of nothing found, Whence faith has fled. The Name that we with reverence speak Echoes across those wastes of thought: But they who go far off to seek, They hear it not. The shores give back its sweetest sound From rivulet cool, and shadowing rock, And voices that calm hearths surround With friendly talk. Earth is our little island home, And heaven the neighbouring continent, Whence winds to every inlet come With balmiest scent; And tenderest whispers thence we hear From mountain slopes of breeze and balm, What melodies arrest the oar! What memories ripple through the calm! We'll keep near shore. By sweet home instincts wafted on, If God be God, then heaven is real : Dreamy and dim. He cheats not any soul. He gave Dear friend, we will not drift too far Moving toward heaven, we'll meet half-way Some pilot from that unseen strand; Then, anchoring safe in perfect day, Tread the firm land. Then onward and for ever on Toward summits piled on summits bright. The lost are found, and we have won The Land of Light! God is that country's glory: He Yet we, for love of those who bend From yon clear heights, passed on before To wait our coming,-we, dear friend, Will keep near shore. ACROSS THE RIVER. WHEN for me the silent oar Shall I miss the loved and known ? Mid the crowd that come to meet Spirits sin-forgiven,— Listening to their echoing feet Down the streets of heaven,— Shall I know a footstep near Then will one approach the brink One whose thoughts I loved to think Saying "I will go with thee, Until now, to climb with thee Can the bonds, that make us here Know ourselves immortal, What is holiest below I shall love the angels well, But at first, without surprise, Step by step our feet must go He who on our earthly path Therefore dread I not to go Through the waters, to the shore THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. [Born about 1835. Son of James Aldrich, himself a writer of some poetic repute]. DECEMBER 1863. ONLY the sea intoning, Only the wainscot-mouse, Darkest of all Decembers Ever my life has known, Sitting here by the embers, Stunned and helpless, alone, Dreaming of two graves lying The other, alas! the pillows Theirs the heroic story, Died, by frigate and town! Mine to linger and languish Ah faint heart! in thy anguish, Only the sea intoning, Only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning THE MOORLAND. THE moorland lies a dreary waste; O sobbing rain outside my door, O wailing phantoms, make your moan; Go through the night in blind despair,— Your shadowy lips have touched my own. No more the robin breaks its heart Of music in the pathless woods : The ravens croak for such as I, The plovers screech above their broods. |