“My men grow mutinous day by day;
    My men grow ghastly, wan and weak.” 
  The stout mate thought of home; a spray
    Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
  “What shall I say, brave Adm’ral, say,
    If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”
  “Why, you shall say, at break of day,
    ‘Sail on!  Sail on!  Sail on! and on!’”

  They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow,
    Until at last the blanched mate said: 
  “Why, now not even God would know
    Should I and all my men fall dead. 
  These very winds forget their way,
    For God from these dread seas is gone. 
  Now speak, brave Adm’ral; speak, and say—­”
    He said:  “Sail on!  Sail on! and on!”

  They sailed!  They sailed!  Then spake the mate: 
    “This mad sea shows its teeth to-night;
  He curls his lip, he lies in wait
    With lifted teeth, as if to bite! 
  Brave Adm’ral, say but one good word,—­
    What shall we do when hope is gone?”
  The words leaped as a leaping sword: 
    “Sail on!  Sail on!  Sail on! and on!”

C.H.  MILLER.

[6] From The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller.

Paradisi Gloria.

  There is a city, builded by no hand,
    And unapproachable by sea or shore,
  And unassailable by any band
    Of storming soldiery for evermore.

  There we no longer shall divide our time
    By acts or pleasures,—­doing petty things
  Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme;
    But we shall sit beside the silver springs

  That flow from God’s own footstool, and behold
    Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few
  Who loved us once and were beloved of old,
    To dwell with them and walk with them anew,

  In alternations of sublime repose,
    Musical motion, the perpetual play
  Of every faculty that Heaven bestows
    Through the bright, busy, and eternal day.

T.W.  PARSONS.

Ballad.

  In the summer even,
    While yet the dew was hoar,
  I went plucking purple pansies,
    Till my love should come to shore. 
  The fishing-lights their dances
    Were keeping out at sea,
  And come, I sung, my true love! 
    Come hasten home to me!

  But the sea, it fell a-moaning,
    And the white gulls rocked thereon;
  And the young moon dropped from heaven,
    And the lights hid one by one. 
  All silently their glances
    Slipped down the cruel sea,
  And wait! cried the night and wind and storm,—­
    Wait, till I come to thee!

H.P.  SPOFFORD.

BOOK THIRD.

The Fool’s Prayer.

  The royal feast was done; the King
    Sought some new sport to banish care,
  And to his jester cried:  “Sir Fool,
    Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”