Know that her spirit to her body lent
    Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness can;
  That even her dust, and this her monument,
    Have yet a spell to stay one lonely man,
  Lonely through life, but looking for the day
    When what is mortal of himself shall sleep,
  When human passion shall have passed away,
    And Love no longer be a thing to weep.

T.W.  PARSONS.

Apart.

  At sea are tossing ships;
    On shore are dreaming shells,
  And the waiting heart and the loving lips,
    Blossoms and bridal bells.

  At sea are sails a-gleam;
    On shore are longing eyes,
  And the far horizon’s haunting dream
    Of ships that sail the skies.

  At sea are masts that rise
    Like spectres from the deep;
  On shore are the ghosts of drowning cries
    That cross the waves of sleep.

  At sea are wrecks a-strand;
    On shore are shells that moan,
  Old anchors buried in barren sand,
    Sea-mist and dreams alone.

J.J.  PIATT.

The Discoverer.

    I have a little kinsman
    Whose earthly summers are but three,
    And yet a voyager is he
    Greater than Drake or Frobisher,
    Than all their peers together! 
    He is a brave discoverer,
    And, far beyond the tether
    Of them who seek the frozen Pole,
  Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. 
    Ay, he has travelled whither
    A winged pilot steered his bark
    Through the portals of the dark,
    Past hoary Mimir’s well and tree,
          Across the unknown sea.

    Suddenly, in his fair young hour,
    Came one who bore a flower,
    And laid it in his dimpled hand
          With this command: 
    “Henceforth thou art a rover! 
    Thou must make a voyage far,
    Sail beneath the evening star,
    And a wondrous land discover.” 
    —­With his sweet smile innocent
          Our little kinsman went.

    Since that time no word
    From the absent has been heard. 
          Who can tell
    How he fares, or answer well
    What the little one has found
    Since he left us, outward bound? 
    Would that he might return! 
    Then should we learn
    From the pricking of his chart
    How the skyey roadways part. 
  Hush! does not the baby this way bring,
    To lay beside this severed curl,
          Some starry offering
    Of chrysolite or pearl?

          Ah, no! not so! 
    We may follow on his track,
          But he comes not back. 
          And yet I dare aver
    He is a brave discoverer
    Of climes his elders do not know. 
    He has more learning than appears
    On the scroll of twice three thousand years,
    More than in the groves is taught,
    Or from furthest Indies brought;