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SUNKEN GOLD

Here sobs are never heard ; no salt tears

flow ;

old ;

In dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships ; And gold doubloons, that from the drowned

hand fell, Lie nestled in the ocean-flower's bell With love's old gifts, once kissed by long

drowned lips; And round some wrought gold cup the sea

grass whips, And hides lost pearls, near pearls still in

their shell, Where sea-weed forests fill each ocean

dell And seek dim sunlight with their restless

tips. So lie the wasted gifts, the long-lost hopes Beneath the now hushed surface of myself, In lonelier depths than where the diver

gropes ; They lie deep, deep ; but I at times behold In doubtful glimpses, on some reefy shelf, The gleam of irrecoverable gold.

Here there are none to help — nor sick nor No wrong to fight, no justice to uphold : Grant me Thy leave to live man's life be

low." “ And then annihilation ?” God replied. Yes,” said the Angel, “even that dread

price ; For earthly tears are worth eternal night.” “ Then go,” said God. - The Angel opened

wide His dazzling wings, gazed back on Heaven

thrice, And plunged for ever from the walls of

Light.

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WHAT THE SONNET IS

SEA-SHELL MURMURS

The hollow sea-shell, which for years

hath stood On dusty shelves, when held against the

ear

Proclaims its stormy parents; and we hear The faint far murmur of the breaking flood. We hear the sea. The sea ? It is the

blood In our own veins, impetuous and near, And pulses keeping pace with hope and

fear And with our feelings'every shifting mood. Lo, in my heart I hear, as in a shell, The murmur of a world beyond the grave, Distinct, distinct, though faint and far it be. Thou fool ; this echo is a cheat as well, – The hum of earthly instincts; and we

crave A world unreal as the shell-heard sea.

FOURTEEN small broidered berries on the

hem Of Circe's mantle, each of magic gold ; Fourteen of lone Calypso's tears that

rolled Into the sea, for pearls to come of them ; Fourteen clear signs of omen in the gem With which Medea human fate foretold ; Fourteen small drops, which Faustus,

growing old, Craved of the Fiend, to water Life's dry

stem. It is the pure white diamond Dante

brought To Beatrice ; the sapphire Laura wore When Petrarch cut it sparkling out of

thought ; The ruby Shakespeare hewed from his

heart's core ; The dark, deep emerald that Rossetti

wrought For his own soul, to wear for evermore.

a

A FLIGHT FROM GLORY

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ONCE, from the parapet of gems and glow, An Angel said, “ O God, the heart grows

cold On these eternal battlements of gold, Where all is pure, but cold as virgin snow.

fold;

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Since at each step I rend a fragment of my

soul, And growth means dying, whither is the

feet ;

goal ?

The old, old question ! yet I do not

shrink From bitter truths ; I do not fear to

drink Even to the dregs the cup that tears may

DEAD. The dead year is lying at my In this strange hour the past and future

meet ; There is no present ; no land in the vast

sea ; Appalled, I stand here in Eternity. Darkness upon me. On my soul it weighs ; The gloom, that has crushed out the life of

days That once knew light, has crept into my

heart ; I have not strength to bid it thence depart. Oh, what is Time ? and what is Life, the fire That thrills my pulses with its large de

sire ?

fill;

I'd know God's truth, though it were human

ill.

I have cast down the idols in my mind Which sought to comfort me for being

blind ; I need no pleasant lie to cheat the night, I need God's Truth, that I may walk

aright.

That, and that only! with unflinching eyes God help me? Well I know the prayer is I would tear through the secret of the vain,

Although it rush up to my lips again ; Smile on, ye stars ; in me there is a might I know His help was given with the Breath Which dares to scale your large empyreal That leads me thus to struggle against height.

death.

skies ;

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THE DEAD CHILD

A blade of grass in a rocky cleft;

A single star to shine.
But yesterday she played with childish - Why should I sorrow if all be lost,
things,

If only thou art mine?
With toys and painted fruit.
To-day she may be speeding on bright | If only a single bluebell gleams
wings

Bright on the barren heath, Beyond the stars ! We ask. The stars Still of that flower the Summer dreams, are mute.

Not of his August wreath.

- Why should I sorrow if thou art mine, But yesterday her doll was all in all ;

Love, beyond change and death ?
She laughed and was content.
To-day she will not answer, if we call : If only once on a wintry day
She dropped no toys to show the road The sun shines forth in the blue,
she went.

He gladdens the groves till they laugh as

in May But yesterday she smiled and ranged with And dream of the touch of the dew. art

- Why should I sorrow if all be false, Her playthings on the bed.

If only thou art true ?
To-day and yesterday are leagues apart !
She will not smile to-day, for she is

THE OLD MAID
dead.

SHE gave her life to love. She never knew IF ONLY THOU ART TRUE What other women give their all to gain.

Others were fickle. She was passing true. IF only a single rose is left,

She gave pure love, and faith without a Why should the summer pine ?

stain.

same.

She never married. Suitors came and The blue ice stiffened on the silenced rill; went :

All times and seasons found her still the The dark eyes flashed their love on one

alone. Her life was passed in quiet and content. Her heart was full of sweetness till the The old love reigned. No rival shared

end. the throne.

What once she gave, she never took

away. Think you her life was wasted ? Vale and Through all her youth she loved one faithhill

ful friend : Blossomed in summer, and white winter She loves him now her hair is growing came ;

gray.

Frederic Edward Weatherly

LONDON BRIDGE

Hurry along, sorrow and song,

All is vanity 'neath the sun ; Velvet and rags, so the world wags,

Until the river no more shall run.

NANCY LEE

PROUD and lowly, beggar and lord,

Over the bridge they go ;
Rags and velvet, fetter and sword,

Poverty, pomp, and woe.
Laughing, weeping, hurrying ever,

Hour by hour they crowd along, While, below, the mighty river Sings them all a mocking song.

Hurry along, sorrow and song,

All is vanity 'neath the sun ;
Velvet and rags, so the world wags,

Until the river no more shall run.

Dainty, painted, powdered and gay,

Rolleth my lady by ;
Rags-and-tatters, over the way,

Čarries a heart as high.
Flowers and dreams from country mea-

dows,
Dust and din through city skies,
Old men creeping with their shadows,
Children with their sunny eyes, -

Hurry along, sorrow and song,

All is vanity 'neath the sun ;
Velvet and rags, so the world wags,

Until the river no more shall run.

Of all the wives as e'er you know,

Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! Yeo-ho!
There's none like Nancy Lee, I trow,

Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho!
See there she stands an' waves her hands

upon the quay,
And ev'ry day when I'm away, she 'll

watch for me,
An' whisper low, when tempests blow for

Jack at Sea,
Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho!
The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall

be,
Yeo-ho! we go across the sea ;
The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall

be, The sailor's wife his star shall be.

Storm and sunshine, peace and strife,

Over the bridge they go ;
Floating on in the tide of life,

Whither no man shall know.
Who will miss them there to-morrow,

Waifs that drift to the shade or sun ?
Gone away with their songs and sorrow ;

Only the river still flows on.

The harbor 's past, the breezes blow :

Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! Yeo-ho! 'T is long ere we come back, I know ;

Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho!
But true an' bright from morn till night

my home will be,
An' all so neat, an' snug, an’ sweet, for

Jack at sea,
An' Nancy's face to bless the place, an'

welcome me ;
Yeo-ho! lads ho ! Yeo-ho!

The boa's'n pipes the watch below,

Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! Yeo-ho! Then here's a health afore we go,

Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! A long long life to my sweet wife and

mates at sea ; An' keep our bones from Davy Jones

where'er we be, An' may you meet a mate as sweet as

Nancy Lee; Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall

be, Yeo-ho! we go across the sea ; The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall

be,
The sailor's wife his star shall be.

He may take the one, or the two, or the

three,
If he 'll only take them away from Lee.

There are three old maids at Lee,
They are cross as cross can be,
And there they are, and there they 'll be
To the end of the chapter one, two,

three,
These three old maids of Lee.

DOUGLAS GORDON

A BIRD IN THE HAND

THERE were three young maids of Lee,
They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three,
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.
But these young maids they cannot find
A lover each to suit her mind;
The plain-spoke lad is far too rough,
The rich young lord is not rich enough,
And one is too poor and one too tall,
And one just an inch too short for them all.
“Others pick and choose and why not we?
“We can very well wait," said the maids

of Lee.
There were three young maids of

Lee,
They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three,
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.

“Row me o'er the strait, Douglas Gordon,

Row me o'er the strait, my love,” said she, “Where we greeted in the summer, Doug

las Gordon, Beyond the little Kirk by the old, old

trysting tree.” Never a word spoke Douglas Gordon, But he looked into her eyes so tenderly,

And he set her at his side,
And away across the tide

They floated to the little Kirk, And the old, old trysting tree. “Give me a word of love, Douglas Gordon,

Just a word of pity, O my love," said she, “ For the bells will ring to-morrow, Douglas

Gordon, My wedding bells, my love, but not for

you and me. They told me you were false, Douglas

Gordon,
And you never came to comfort me ! ”

And she saw the great tears rise,
In her lover's silent eyes,

As they drifted to the little Kirk,
And the old, old, trysting tree.

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There are three old maids of Lee,
And they are old as old can be,
And one is deaf, and one cannot see,
And they all are cross as a gallows tree,
These three old maids of Lee.
Now if any one chanced - 't is a chance

remote -
One single charm in these maids to note,
He need not a poet nor handsome be,
For one is deaf and one cannot see ;
He need not woo on his bended knee,
For they all are willing as willing can

be.

But tell me that you love me, Douglas

Gordon, And kiss me for the love of all that used

to be !" Then he flung away his sail, his oars and

rudder, And he took her in his arms so tenderly,

And they drifted on amain,
And the bells may call in vain,

For she and Douglas Gordon
Are drowned in the sea.

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