To where they are warmed with the central fire,

You could feel its granite fibres racked, As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill

Right at the breast of the swooping hill,

And to rise again snorting a cataract Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge,

While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep,

And the next vast breaker curled its edge,

Gathering itself for a mightier leap.

North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers

You would never dream of in smooth weather,

That toss and gore the sea for acres, Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together;

Look northward, where Duck Island lies,
And over its crown you will see arise,
Against a background of slaty skies,
A row of pillars still and white,
That glimmer, and then are gone from
sight,

As if the moon should suddenly kiss, While you crossed the gusty desert by night,

The long colonnades of Persepolis; Look southward for White Island light,

The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide;

There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight,

Of dash and roar and tumble and fright, And surging bewilderment wild and wide,

Where the breakers struggle left and right,

Then a mile or more of rushing sea, And then the lighthouse slim and lone; And whenever the weight of ocean is

thrown

Full and fair on White Island head,
A great mist-jotun you will see
Lifting himself up silently

High and huge o'er the lighthouse top,
With hands of wavering spray outspread,
Groping after the little tower,

That seems to shrink and shorten and
cower,

Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop,
And silently and fruitlessly
He sinks back into the sea.

You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand,

Awaken once more to the rush and roar,

And on the rock-point tighten your hand,

As you turn and see a valley deep,

That was not there a moment before, Suck rattling down between you and a heap

Of toppling billow, whose instant fall Must sink the whole island once for all,

core;

Yet they momently cool and dampen and deaden,

The crimson turns golden, the gold turns leaden,

Hardening into one black bar
O'er which, from the hollow heaven afar,
Shoots a splinter of light like diamond,
Half seen, half fancied; by and by
Beyond whatever is most beyond

In the uttermost waste of desert sky,
Grows a star;

And over it, visible spirit of dew,
Ah, stir not, speak not, hold your
breath,

Or surely the miracle vanisheth,
The new moon, tranced in unspeakable
blue!

No frail illusion; this were true,
Rather, to call it the canoe
Hollowed out of a single pearl,

That floats us from the Present's whirl
Back to those beings which were ours,
When wishes were winged things like
powers!

Call it not light, that mystery tender, Which broods upon the brooding ocean, That flush of ecstasied surrender

Knew you what silence was before?
Here is no startle of dreaming bird
That sings in his sleep, or strives to
sing;

Here is no sough of branches stirred,
Nor noise of any living thing,
Such as one hears by night on shore;
Only, now and then, a sigh,
With fickle intervals between,
Sometimes far, and sometimes nigh,
Such as Andromeda might have heard,
And fancied the huge sea-beast unseen
Turning in sleep; it is the sea
That welters and wavers uneasily
Round the lonely reefs of Appledore.

THE WIND-HARP.

I TREASURE in secret some long, fine hair

Of tenderest brown, but so inwardly

golden

I half used to fancy the sunshine there, So shy, so shifting, so waywardly rare, Was only caught for the moment and holden

While I could say Dearest! and kiss it, and then

In pity let go to the summer again.

I twisted this magic in gossamer strings Over a wind-harp's Delphian hollow; Then called to the idle breeze that swings

All day in the pine-tops, and clings, and sings

Mid the musical leaves, and said, “O, follow

The will of those tears that deepen my

words,

And fly to my window to waken these chords."

YES, faith is a goodly anchor;
When skies are sweet as a psalm,
At the bows it lolls so stalwart,
In its bluff, broad-shouldered calm.

And when over breakers to leeward
The tattered surges are hurled,
It may keep our head to the tempest,
With its grip on the base of the world.

But, after the shipwreck, tell me
What help in its iron thews,
Still true to the broken hawser,
Deep down among sea-weed and ooze?

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow,
When the helpless feet stretch out
And find in the deeps of darkness
No footing so solid as doubt,

Then better one spar of Memory,
One broken plank of the Past,
That our human heart may cling to,
Though hopeless of shore at last!

THE DEAD HOUSE.

HERE once my step was quickened,
Here beckoned the opening door,
And welcome thrilled from the thresh-
old

To the foot it had known before.

A glow came forth to meet me From the flame that laughed in the grate,

And shadows adance on the ceiling,

Danced blither with mine for a mate.