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LONGING FOR HOME.

Athwart the ragged rift the Moon looms pale,
Driven before the gale,

And making silvern shadows with her breath,
Where on the sighing Sea it shimmereth;
And, lo! the light illumes the reef; 'tis shed
Full on the wreck, as the dark boat draws nigh.
A crash!-the wreck upon the reef is fled!

A scream!-and all is still beneath the sky,
Save the wild waters as they whirl and cry.

247

Robert Buchanan.

LONGING FOR HOME.

I.

A song of a boat:

There was once a boat on a billow:

Lightly she rocked to her port remote,

And the foam was white in her wake like snow,

And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, And bent like a wand of willow.

2.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat
Went curtseying over the billow;

I marked her course till a dancing mote
She faded out on the moonlit foam,
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home;
And my thoughts all day were about the boat
And my dreams upon the pillow.

3.

I pray you hear my song of a boat,
For it is but short:-

My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,
In river or port.

248

LONGING FOR HOME.

Long I looked out for the lad she bore,

On the open desolate sea,

And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,
For he came not back to me—

4.

A song of a nest:

Ah me!

There was once a nest in a hollow: Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, Soft and warm, and full to the brimVetches leaned over it purple and dim, With buttercup buds to follow.

5.

I pray you hear my song of a nest,
For it is not long:-

You shall never light, in a summer quest
The bushes among―

Shall never light on a prouder sitter,
A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter,
That wind-like did come and go.

6.

had a nestful once of my own,

Ah happy, happy I!

Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly

O, one after one they flew away

Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day,
And I wish I was going too.

7.

I pray you, what is the nest to me,

My empty nest?

And what is the shore where I stood to see

My boat sail down to the west?

DEATH.

Can I call that home where I anchor yet,
Though my good man has sailed?

Can I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hope hath failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went,

And the land where my nestlings be:
There is the home where my thoughts are sent,
The only home for me—

Ah me!

F. Ingelow.

DEATH.

THEY die-the dead return not. Misery
Sits near an open grave, and calls them over,
A youth with hoary hair and haggard eye.

They are the names of kindred, friend, and lover,
Which he so feebly calls. They all are gone,
Fond wretch, all dead! Those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain,

These tombs,-alone remain.

Misery, my sweetest friend, oh! weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled? I wonder not:
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm but transitory,—
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary.
This most familiar scene, my pain,

These tombs,-alone remain.

P. B. Shelley.

249

250

AIRLY BEACON.

AIRLY BEACON.

AIRLY Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the pleasant sight to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,
While my love climbed up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon,

Oh, the happy hours we lay
Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,
Courting through the summer's day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the weary haunt for me

All alone on Airly Beacon,
With his baby on my knee!

C. Kingsley.

THE MERRY LARK WAS UP AND SINGING.

THE merry, merry lark was up and singing,
And the hare was out and feeding on the lea;
And the merry merry bells below were ringing,
When my child's laugh rang through me.

Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard,
And the lark beside the dreary winter sea;
And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard
Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.

C. Kingsley.

LAMENT.

251

LAMENT.

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

A. Tennyson.

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