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Her weather shrouds as viol-strings,
And leeward all a-clatter, -
The waters cleave and scatter.
Shoulder to shoulder, breast to breast,
Arms locked, hand over hand :
Eyes forward to the land;
Driving the wheel to wind, to lee,
The two men work as one,
Low slants the summer sun.
The harbor opens wide and wide,
Draws up on either quarter;
The keel finds smoother water.
And tacking starboard, tacking port,
Bows hissing, heeled to leeward, Through craft of many a size and sort,
She trails the long bay seaward.
And jibing once to wear about,
The hurling wind drives at her ;
The sheet-blocks rasp and clatter.
A lumberman lies full abeam,
Tho flow sets squarely toward her; We .ose our headway in the stream
And drift broadside aboard her.
A sudden flurry fore and aft,
Shout, trainple, strain, wind howling; A ponderous jar of craft on craft,
A boom that threatens fouling;
A jarring slide of hull on hull, —
Her bowsprit sweeps our quarter. Clang go the sheets; the jib draws full;
Once more we cleave the water.
The anchor rattles from the bow,
The jib comes wrapping downward ; And quiet rides the dripping prow,
Wave-lapped and pointing townward.
Oh, gracious is the arching sky,
The south wind blowing blandly; The rippling white-caps fleck and fly;
The sunset flushes grandly.
And all the charm of sea and land,
And splendid sunset glow and grace, And, more, I'd give to hold her hand And look upon her face!
JAMES T. MCKAY
He stood beside a cottage lone,
And listened to a lute,
And the nightingale was mute.
To hear a lover's suit,
As sweet and low,
“By every hope that earthward clings, By faith that mounts on angel wings,
By dreams that make night-shadows bright,
And for its soft and sole reply,
But not a spoken word;
Into his eyes who heard,
In a voice like that of a bird ;
A love that took an early root
And had an early doom,
And early shed their bloom;
All lost for evermore,
But never came to shore !
THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY. O! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM.
O! SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom,
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And lingering pause, and lightly tread:
Away! we know that tears are vain,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain,
Or make one mourner weep the less ?