Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges, Heaven-descended, soon to heaven withdrawn,

Ever dwells the lesser in the greater;

In God's love the human: we by these Know he holds Love's simplest stammering sweeter

Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees.

UNKNOWN.

THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL

UP on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made,

Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June,

chanting their ceaseless tune: For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore,

Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more.

The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird,

and the priest's low tone were blent In the breeze that blew from the moorland, all laden with country scent; But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains, Or of lilies deep in the wild-wood, or roses gemming the lanes, Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed men who gathered around the

grave, Where lay the mate who had fought with

them the battle of wind and wave.

How boldly he steered the coble across the foaming bar,

When the sky was black to the eastward

and the breakers white on the Scar! How his keen eye caught the squall ahead,

how his strong hand furled the sail, As we drove o'er the angry waters before the raging gale!

How cheery he kept all the long dark night; and never a parson spoke Good words, like those he said to us,

when at last the morning broke!

So thought the dead man's comrades, as silent and sad they stood, While the prayer was prayed, the blessing said, and the dull earth struck the wood;

Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way; The lichen had a lovelier red,

The elder-flower a fairer gray.

And there was silence on the land,
Save when, from out the city's fold,
Stricken by Time's remorseless wand,
A bell across the morning tolled.

The beeches sighed through all their boughs;

The gusty pennons of the pine
Swayed in a melancholy drowse,
But with a motion sternly fine.

One gable, full against the sun,
Flooded the garden-space beneath
With spices, sweet as cinnamon,

From all its honeysuckled breath.

Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke,

The windmill shook its slanted arms,

The sun was up, the country woke!

And voices sounded mid the trees

Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees, From fields which promised tented sheaves;

Till the day waxed into excess,

And on the misty, rounding gray,One vast, fantastic wilderness, The glowing roofs of London lay.

UNKNOWN.

THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS.

THE sea is calling, calling.
Wife, is there a log to spare?
Fling it down on the hearth and call
them in,

The boys and girls with their merry din,
I am loth to leave you all just yet,
In the light and the noise I might forget,
The voice in the evening air.

The sea is calling, calling,
Along the hollow shore.

I know each nook in the rocky strand,
And the crimson weeds on the golden sand,

And the worn old cliff where the seapinks cling,

And the winding caves where the echoes ring.

I shall wake them nevermore.
How it keeps calling, calling,
It is never a night to sail.

I saw the "sea-dog" over the height,
As I strained through the haze my fail-
ing sight,

And the cottage creaks and rocks, wellnigh,

As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by,
In the moan of the rising gale.

Yet it is calling, calling.
It is hard on a soul, I say,

To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark,

Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark;

While the foam flies thick on the bitter

blast,

And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, Where the black buoy marks the bay.

Do you hear it calling, calling?
And yet, I am none so old.
At the herring fishery, but last year,
No boat beat mine for tackle and gear,
And I steered the coble past the reef,
When the broad sail shook like a with-
ered leaf,

And the rudder chafed my hold.

Will it never stop calling, calling?
Can't you sing a song by the hearth?
A heartsome stave of a merry glass,
Or a gallant fight, or a bonnie lass?
Don't you care for your grand-dad just
so much?

Come near then, give me a hand to touch,
Still warm with the warmth of earth.

You hear it calling, calling?
Ask her why she sits and cries.
She always did when the sea was up,
She would fret, and never take bit or sup
When I and the lads were out at night,
And she saw the breakers cresting white
Beneath the low black skies.

But, then, it is calling, calling,
No summons to soul was sent.
Now- Well, fetch the parson, find the
book,

It is up on the shelf there if you look;

MARY N. PRESCOTT.

337

The sea has been friend, and fire, and

TWO MOODS.

Singing along the river-side;
The skies above were opulent

I PLUCKED the harebells as I went

Of sunshine. "Ah! whate'er betide,
The world is sweet, is sweet," I cried,
That morning by the river-side.

The curlews called along the shore;
The boats put out from sandy beach;
Afar I heard the breakers' roar,
Mellowed to silver-sounding speech;
And still I sang it o'er and o'er,
"The world is sweet forevermore!"

Perhaps, to-day, some other one,
Loitering along the river-side,
Content beneath the gracious sun,
May sing, again, "Whate'er betide,
I shall not chide,

The world is sweet.'
Although my song is done.

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER.

fledgelings lie; I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby; By and by I shall teach them to fly, Up and away, every one!"

Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you going?

"To fill my basket with precious pelf; To toil for my neighbor as well as myself; To find out the sweetest flower that grows, Be it a thistle or be it a rose,

A secret worth the knowing!"

Each content with the work to be done,
Ever the same from sun to sun:
Shall you and I be taught to work
By the bee and the bird, that scorn to
shirk?

Wind and rain fulfilling His word!
Tell me, was ever a legend heard
Where the wind, commanded to blow,
deferred;

Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred?

I toiled alone:

My toil was fashioning thought and

sound, and his was hewing stone; I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the common street,

And it seemed his toil was great and hard, while mine was great and sweet.

blossom never more,

And the burden of my loneliness lies on

"The sun grew on the world, and on my soul the thought grew too, A great appalling sun, to light my soul the long day through.

I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began

With man's gigantic strength to do the labor of one man.

"I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hundred men,

The worker with the chisel and the worker with the pen,

The restless toilers after good, who sow and never reap,

And one who maketh music for their

souls that may not sleep.

"Each passed me with a dauntless look, and my undaunted eyes Were almost softened as they passed with tears that strove to rise At sight of all those labors, and because

that every one,

Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little were undone.

"They passed me, having faith in me, and in our several ways,

Together we began to-day as on the other days:

I felt their mighty hands at work, and, as the day wore through, Perhaps they felt that even I was helping somewhat too:

"Perhaps they felt, as with those hands they lifted mightily The burden once more laid upon the world so heavily,

man can do and bear,

It did not wholly fall my side as though no man were there.

"And so we toil together many a day from morn till night,

I in the lower depths of life, they on the lovely height;

For though the common stones are mine, and they have lofty cares, Their work begins where this leaves off, and mine is part of theirs.

"And 't is not wholly mine or theirs I think of through the day,

But the great eternal thing we make together, I and they;

Far in the sunset I behold a city that