On stormy nights, when wild north-westers rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! The dripping sailor on the reeling mast

Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.

And where the land she travels from? Away,
Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

STARLIGHT.

ARKLING, methinks, the path of life is grown,

And Solitude and Sorrow close around;

My fellow-travellers one by one are gone,

Their home is reached, but mine must still be found.

The sun that set as the last bowed his head

To cross the threshold of his resting-place, Has left the world devoid of all that made

Its business, pleasure, happiness, and grace.

But I have still the desert path to trace ;

Not with the day has my day's work an end;

And winds and shadows through the cold air chase, And earth looks dark where walked we, friend with friend.

And yet thus wildered, not without a guide,

I wander on amid the shades of night;

My home-fires gleam, methinks, and round them glide
My friends at peace, far off, but still in sight;
For through the closing gloom mine eyesight goes
Further in heaven than when the day was bright;
And there, as Earth still dark and darker grows,
Shines out, for every shade, a world of light.

MRS. ARTHUR CLIVE.

ON THE SEA-BEACH.

MY life is like a stroll upon the beach,

As near the ocean's edge as I can go ;
My tardy steps its waves sometimes o'erreach,
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.

My sole employment is, and scrupulous care,
To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,
Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,
Which ocean kindly to my hand confides.

I have but few companions on the shore-
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea
Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er
Is deeper known upon the strand to me.

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,

Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view;
Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,

And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.

HENRY D. THOREAU.

LIFE.

LIFE! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met,

I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear—

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not Good Night,—but, in some brighter clime,

Bid me Good Morning!

ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAuld.

UP-HILL.

OES the road wind up-hill all the way?

DOES

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

AT NOONTIDE CAME A VOICE.

AT

T noon-tide came a voice, 'Thou must away;
Hast thou some look to give, some word to

say,

Or hear, of fond farewell?'-I answered 'Nay,

My soul hath said its farewell, long ago;

How light, when summer comes, the loosened snow Slides from the hills! Yet tell me, where I go

'Doth any wait for me?' Then, like the clear, Full drops of summer rain that seem to cheer The skies they fall from, soft within mine ear,

And slow, as if to render through that sweet
Delay, a blest assurance more complete,
'Yea,' only 'yea,' was whispered me, and then
A silence that was unto it 'Amen.'

'Doth any love me there?' I said, 'or mark
Within the dull cold flint the fiery spark,
One moment flashing out into the dark?

'My spirit glowed, yet burned not to a clear, Warm, steadfast flame, to lighten or to cheer.' The sweet voice said, 'By things which do appear

'We judge amiss. The flower which wears its way Through stony chinks, lives on from day to day, Approved for living, let the rest be gay

'And sweet as summer! Heaven within the reed Lists for the flute-note, in the folded seed It sees the bud, and in the Will the Deed.'

DORA GREENWELL.

F

PROSPICE.

EAR death?—to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go :

For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,