Turn thy curved prow ashore, And in our green isle rest forevermore!

Forevermore !"

And Echo half wakes in the w

oded hill, And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep,

Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, "Evermore!

Thus, on Life's weary sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing low and clear,
Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be,
Than to be toiling late and soon
In the dreary night to see
Nothing but the blood-red moon
Go up and down into the sea;
Or, in the loneliness of day,

To see the still seals only Solemnly lift their faces gray,

१

Making it yet more lonely?
Is it not better than to hear
Only the sliding of the wave
Beneath the plank, and feel so near
A cold and lonely grave,

A restless grave, where thou shalt li
Even in death unquietly?

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark,
Lean over the side and see

The leaden eye of the sidelong shark
Upturned patiently,

Ever waiting there for thee:
Look down and see those shapeless form s,
Which ever keep their dreamless sleep
Far down within the gloomy deep,
And only stir themselves in storms,
Rising like islands from beneath,

And snorting through the angry spray,
As the frail vessel perisheth
In the whirls of their unwieldy play ;
Look down! Look down!
Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark,
That waves its arms so lank and brown,
Beckoning for thee!

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark
Into the cold depth of the sea!
Look down Look down!

Thus, on Life's lonely sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voice's sad, from far and near,
Ever singing full of fear,
Ever singing drearfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream;
The wind se farce shaketh down the dew,
The green grass floweth like a stream
Into the ocean's blue;
Listen! O, listen!

Here is a gush of many streams,

A song of many birds,

And every

wish and longing seems

Lulled to a numbered flow of words,
Listen! O, listen!

Here ever hum the golden bees
Underneath full-blossomed trees,
At once

with glowing fruit and flowers crowned; The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, That ty keel will not grate as it touches th the land;

All erund with a slumberous sound,
The nging waves slide up the strand,
And there, where the smooth, wet peb-
bles be,

The waters gurgle longingly,
As if they fain would seek the shore,
To be at rest from the ceaseless roar,
To be at rest forevermore,

Forevermore.

Thus, on Life's gloomy sea,
Heareth the marinere
Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing in his ear,

"Here is rest and peace for thee!"

IRENÉ.

HERS is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear; Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, Free without boldness, meek without a fear,

Quicker to look than speak its sympathies,

Far down into her large and patient eyes
I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite,
As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night,
I look into the fathomless blue skies.

So circled lives she with Love's holy light,

That from the shade of self she walketh free;

The garden of her soul still keepeth she
An Eden where the snake did never enter;
She hath a natural, wise sincerity,
A simple truthfulness, and these have lent
her

A dignity as moveless as the centre;
So that no influence of earth can stir
Her steadfast courage, nor can take away
The holy peacefulness, which night and
day,

Unto her queenly soul doth minister.

Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear; And, though herself not unacquaint with

care,

Hath in her heart wide room for all that be,

Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, But open is as eglantine full blown. Cloudless forever is her brow serene, Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence

Welleth a noiseless spring of patience, That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green And full of holiness, that every look, The greatness of her woman's soul revealing,

Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling As when I read in God's own holy book.

A graciousness in giving that doth make The small'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek

Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak

Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake;

The deep religion of a thankful heart, Which rests instinctively in Heaven's clear law

With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness;- a holy awe For holy things, - not those which men call holy,

But such as are revealed to the eyes

WITH A PRESSED FLOWER.

THIS little blossom from afar
Hath come from other lands to thine;
For, once, its white and drooping star
Could see its shadow in the Rhine.

Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one from the selfsame stalk,

And numbered over, half afraid,
Its petals in her evening walk.

The changeful April sky of chance
And the strong tide of circumstance, —
Give me, old granite gray,

Some of thy pensiveness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,
Put in this scrip of mine,

That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light,

And deck me in a robe of white,
Ready to be an angel bright, –
O sweetly mournful pine.

A little of thy merriment,

heaven!"

And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven.

And thou must count its petals well,
Because it is a gift from me;
And the last one of all shall tell
Something I've often told to thee.

But here at home, where we were born,
Thou wilt find flowers just as true,
Down-bending every summer morn,
With freshness of New-England dew.

For Nature, ever kind to love,

Hath granted them the same sweet tongue,

Whether with German skies above,
Or here our granite rocks among.

Give me, my cheerful brook,
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;

Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey 's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet !
Some of thy modesty,

That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,
O, give, to strengthen me.