The sea is never quiet:  east and west
    The nations hear it, like the voice of fate;
    Within vast shores its strife makes desolate,
  Still murmuring mid storms that to its breast
  Return, as eagles screaming to their nest. 
    Is it the voice of worlds and isles that wait
  While old earth crumbles to eternal rest,
    Or some hoar monster calling to his mate? 
  O ye, that hear it moan about the shore,
    Be still and listen! that loud voice hath sung
      Where mountains rise, where desert sands are blown;
  And when man’s voice is dumb, forevermore
    ’Twill murmur on its craggy shores among,
      Singing of gods and nations overthrown.

W.P.  FOSTER.

At Gibraltar.

I.

  England, I stand on thy imperial ground,
    Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,
    I feel within my blood old battles flow,—­
  The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found. 
  Still surging dark against the Christian bound
    Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know
    Thy heights that watch them wandering below;
  I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound. 
  I turn and meet the cruel turbaned face;
    England, ’tis sweet to be so much thy son! 
  I feel the conqueror in my blood and race;
    Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day
  Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun
    Startles the desert over Africa!

II.

  Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas
    Between the East and West, that God has built;
    Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,
  While run thy armies true with His decrees. 
  Law, justice, liberty,—­great gifts are these;
    Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt,
    Lest, mixt and sullied with his country’s guilt,
  The soldier’s life-stream flow and Heaven displease. 
  Two swords there are:  one naked, apt to smite,
    Thy blade of war; and, battled-storied, one
  Rejoices in the sheath and hides from light
    American I am; would wars were done! 
  Now westward look, my country bids Good-night,—­
    Peace to the world from ports without a gun!

G.E.  WOODBERRY.

Jerry an’ Me.

  No matter how the chances are,
    Nor when the winds may blow,
  My Jerry there has left the sea
    With all its luck an’ woe: 
  For who would try the sea at all,
    Must try it luck or no.

  They told him—­Lor’, men take no care
    How words they speak may fall—­
  They told him blunt, he was too old,
    Too slow with oar an’ trawl,
  An’ this is how he left the sea
    An’ luck an’ woe an’ all.

  Take any man on sea or land
    Out of his beaten way,
  If he is young ’twill do, but then,
    If he is old an’ gray,
  A month will be a year to him,
    Be all to him you may.