THE SEAMAN'S HOME.
WIDE let the venturous sea-bird roam,
A speck on ocean's bosom cast;
Touch with white breast the whiter foam,
And shrick before the rising blast.
But give her, when her wing is weary,
A home beyond the cliff's bare verge,
That, resting in her rocky eyrie,

Her eye may scan the rolling surge.
Beyond where bravest sea-bird dares,

The seaman's eager prow has driven; And far beyond the line that bears

The mingled blue of sea and heaven. His ship has drifted to the gale,

Where many a night the full, round moon Saw but herself, and that white sail,

O'er all the central ocean strewn. Where many a night each cold, pale star Looked kindly on his lonely watch, Telling of cottage homes afar,

And lattice lights beneath the thatch.
He brought the gold of other lands,

He braved the battle's stormy rage;
Give him a home where kindly hands
Shall rock the cradle of his age.
No grey-haired wife may soothe his grief,
No child may guide his tottering limb;
The honey on the withered leaf,

The charms of life are not for him.
But give him on his own loved shore
A quiet haven, where the brawl
Of the chafed sea shall vex no more,"
Or only come at memory's call.
And let some gentle, pastoral tone
Speak to his soul of pardoned sin,
Till Mercy melt the heart of stone,
And Hope with sorrow enters in.

Till, as of old, when out at sea,

His country far behind him faded, Some brighter isle before would be, With golden vales by palm trees shaded.

So as his life fades slow and calm,

And all of earth in distance dies, The land that bears the heavenly palm, Shall break on faith's fast closing eyes. C. F. A. -Dublin University Magazine.

While busy life roars on with din and bustle,
We all the autumn day

Keep musing still how light the dead leaves

rustle

Above the cherished clay.

And when the night counts o'er her starry num

ber

Sleep visits not the door;

We wake to think of eyes sealed fast with slumber,

Till night shall be no more.

Of voices that we now hear but in recollection,
Lips once so warm with love,

Ears that until the morn of resurrection
Nor speech nor sound may move.

Thus the low sense clings with its constant weeping,

Clings eager in its pain,

To the low spot where its beloved lies sleeping,
And dead its joys remain.

But when the soul can break the heavy fetter
That binds it to the earth,

It views with faith triumphant, vision better,
The country of its birth.

In that bright realm, baptized with life immortal,
The absent ones appear;

Their songs faint echoed from the heavenly portal,

Half dream we that we hear.

From day to day, the light of heaven is clearer,
And hope more patient grows,

As with unresting steps our feet draw nearer
Unto the journey's close;

Unto that home where loving, waits to greet us
Full many an angel fair;

Oh, shall we, wondering, as its glories meet us Feel ourselves strangers there ?