In the storm of the years that are fading, Under the sod and the dew, No more shall the war-cry sever, When they laurel the graves of our dead. Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue, FRANCIS MILES FINOH. The Death of King Bomba. COULD I pass those lounging sentries, Turn decay to beauty rare,— Face to face two kings are met: Late to conscience-clearing set. Well his fevered pulse may flutter, Will not frighten Death away. By the dying despot sitting, He but ruled within his borders Did what Austria bade him do,— Chained with crime's felonious crew. Theirs the counsel, his the reins. So he pleads excuses eager, At the bed-clothes as he speaks; Drifteth slowly down the dark; The Golden Wedding. ANONYMOUS. O LOVE, whose patient pilgrim feet Whose ministry hath symboled sweet The sacred myrtle wreathes again And what was green with summer then, Not now, as then, the Future's face Nor less the blinding shower The bud of fifty years agone Is Love's perfected flower. O Memory, ope thy mystic door! O dream of youth, return! And let the lights that gleamed of yore The past is plain; 't was Love designed And Mercy's shining thread has twined So be it still. O thou who hast Till the May-morn of love has passed And, at thy touch divine, The water of that earlier board To-night shall turn to wine. Tacking Ship off Shore. THE weather leech of the topsail shivers, DAVID GRAY. The bowlines strain, and the lee shrouds slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken. Open one point on the weather bow, Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head. There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, And the pilot watches the heaving lead. I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye The ship bends lower before the breeze, As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; It is silence all, as each in his place, With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, Waiting the watchword, impatient stands. And the light on Fire Island Head draws near, No time to spare! It is touch and go; And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!" As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown. High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; With the swerving leap of a startled steed, The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind; The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, And the headland white we have left behind. The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps; And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!" Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, The sails are aback from clew to clew, And now is the moment for "Mainsail haul!" And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, She holds her way, and I look with joy For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. "Let go, and haul! 'T is the last command, And the head-sails fill to the blast once more; Astern and to leeward lies the land, With its breakers white on a shingly shore. What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall? The first mate clamors, "Belay there, all!" And the captain's breath once more comes free. And so off shore let the good ship fly; In Little care I how the gusts may blow, my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry, Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. WALTER MITCHELL The Mistress of the House. THE guests are come, all silent they have waited; They linger for her coming, sore belated- |