'PLEASURE-PAIN.

179

But the bubbles broke on the surface;

And under, the stars of gold
Broke; and the hurrying water

Flowed onward, swift and cold.

II.

I stood on the brink in manhood,

And it came to my weary brain,
And my heart, so dull and heavy

After the years of pain,

That
every

hollowest bubble
Which over my life had passed
Still into its deeper current

Some heavenly gleam had cast;

That, however I mocked it gayly,

And guessed at its hollowness,
Still shone, with each bursting bubble,

One star in my soul the less.

W. D. HOWELLS.

PLEASURE-PAIN.

I.

ON
NE sails away to sea,

One stands on the shore and cries ;
The ship goes down the world, and the light

On the sullen water dies.

The whispering shell is mute,

And after is evil cheer:
She shall stand on the shore and cry in vain

Many and many a year.
But the stately, wide-winged ship

Lies wrecked on the unknown deep;
Far under, dead in his coral bed,

The lover lies asleep.

II.

Like a bird of evil presage,

To the lonely house on the shore Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck,

And shrieked at the bolted door,

And flapped its wings in the gables,

And shouted the well-known names, And buffeted the windows

Afeard in their shuddering frames.

It was night, and it is morning,

The summer sun is bland,
The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking

In to the summer land.

The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking

In the sun so soft and bright,
And toss and play with the dead man
Drowned in the storm last night.

W. D. HOWELLS.

SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING.

181

THE SEA.

IT
T surged and foamed on cold gray lands,

No life was in its waves :
It rolled and raged on barren strands,

Or thundered into caves ;
And yet it sang a glorious song,
An ancient pæan loud and long.

It broke upon the new-made beach,

That roaring, restless Sea,
The only burden of its speech

One word, — Eternity ;
And ever sang that glorious song,
An ancient pæan loud and long.

EDMUND SANDARS,

SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING.

OUR
UR bark is on the waters deep, our bright blade's

in our hand, Our birthright is the ocean vast, — we scorn the

girdled land; And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none

can bolder be Than the hoarse-tongued tempest raving o'er a proud

and swelling sea !

The sunken treasures of my heart as well

Look up to me as perfect as at dawn; My golden palace heaves beneath the swell

To meet my touch, and is again withdrawn.

There sleep the early triumphs, cheaply won,

That led Ambition to his utmost verge ; And still his visions, like a drowning sun,

Send up receding splendors through the surge.

There wait the recognitions, the quick ties,

Whence the heart knows its kin wherever cast; And there the partings, when the wistful eyes

Caress each other, as they look their last.

There lie the summer eves, delicious eves,

The soft green valleys drenched with light divine, The lisping murmurs of the chestnut leaves,

The hand that lay, the eyes that looked in mine.

There lives the hour of fear and rapture yet,

The perilled climax of the passionate years ; There still the rains of wan December wet

A naked mound, - I cannot see for tears.

I see them all, but stretch my hands in vain ;

No deep sea plummet reaches where they rest; No cunning diver shall descend the main

And bring a single jewel from its breast.

BAYARD TAYLOR

LOW TIDE.

173

LOW TIDE.

,
While the intrepid waters flow,
And the white birds, lit by the sun into silver,
Glitter against the blue below;

And the tide is low.

Here, years ago, in golden weather,

Under the cliff, and close to the sea,
A pledge was given that made me master
Of all that ever was dear to me ;

And the tide was low.

Only a little year fled by after,

Then my bride and I came once more, And saw the sea, like a bird imprisoned, Beating its wings 'gainst its bars, the shore;

And the tide was low.

Now I walk alone by the filmy breakers,

A voice is hushed I can never forget;
Upon my sea dead calm has fallen,
My ships are harbored, my sun is set;

And the tide is low.

HENRY ABBBY.