Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn!

While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

new,

unresting sea!

SUN AND SHADOW.

As I look from the isie, o'er its billows of green,

To the billows of foam-crested blue, Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen,

Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue : Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray

As the chaff in the stroke of the flail ; Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her way,

The sun gleaming bright on her sail.

Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,

Of breakers that whiten and roar; How little he cares, if in shadow or sun They see him who gaze from the shore ! He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef,

To the rock that is under his lee, As he drifts on the blast, like a windwafted leaf,

O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea.

Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted

caves

Where life and its ventures are laid, The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves

May see us in sunshine or shade; Yet true to our course, though the

shadows grow dark,

We'll trim our broad sail as before, And stand by the rudder that governs the bark,

Nor ask how we look from the shore !

THE TWO ARMIES.

As Life's unending column pours, Two marshalled hosts are seen, Two armies on the trampled shores

That Death flows black between.

One marches to the drum-beat's roll,

The wide-mouthed clarion's bray, And bears upon a crimson scroll, "Our glory is to slay."

One moves in silence by the stream, With sad, yet watchful eyes, Calm as the patient planet's gleam That walks the clouded skies.

Along its front no sabres shine,

No blood-red pennons wave; Its banner bears the single line, "Our duty is to save."

For those no death-bed's lingering shade;
At Honor's trumpet-call,

With knitted brow and lifted blade
In Glory's arms they fall.

For these no clashing falchions bright, No stirring battle-cry;

The bloodless stabber calls by night, Each answers, "Here am I!”

For those the sculptor's laurelled bust,
The builder's marble piles,
The anthems pealing o'er their dust
Through long cathedral aisles.

For these the blossom-sprinkled turf
That floods the lonely graves
When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf
In flowery-foaming waves.

Two paths lead upward from below,
And angels wait above,
Who count each burning life-drop's flow,
Each falling tear of Love.

Though from the Hero's bleeding breast
Her pulses Freedom drew,
Though the white lilies in her crest
Sprang from that scarlet dew,