Perhaps she hath a charge from God Thus, fellow-pilgrims, fare we on; When Woe shall leave me safe,- SO saith My sweet-voiced Hope, and turn to Some other soul; while Joy shall spring ! SARAH HAMMOND PALFREY A STRIP OF BLUE I Do not own an inch of land, The lawns and gardens fine. A tribute rare and free; Richer am I than he who owns Great fleets and argosies; I have a share in every ship Won by the inland breeze, To loiter on yon airy road Above the apple-trees. I freight them with my untold dreams; My ships that sail into the East Sometimes they seem like living shapes, All souls find sailing-room. The ocean grows a weariness God's sweeping garment-fold, The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, Float in upon the mist; The waves are broken precious stones,Sapphire and amethyst Washed from celestial basement walls, Out through the utmost gates of space, Here sit I, as a little child; What thrills me? What comes near me? Do I stand on the sward alone? Was that a light wind, or a whisper? a touch, or the pulse of a tone? Olivia! whose spells from my slumber my broken heart sway and control, At length bring'st thou death to me, dearest, or rest to my suffering soul? No sound but the psalm of the ocean: "Bow down to the solemn decree, The lovely, the lost Olivia will never return to thee ! " With the light in his eyes of a young man's dream, As he thought of his wedding on New Year's Day To Ruth, the maid with the bonnie brown hair, And eyes of the deepest, sunniest blue, Modest and winsome, and wondrous fair, And true to her troth, for her heart was true. "Thou's surely not going!" shouted mine host, "Thou 'll be lost in the drift, as sure as thou's born; Thy lass winnot want to wed wi' a ghost, And that's what thou 'll be on Christmas morn. "It's eleven long miles from Skipton toon To Blueberg hooses 'e Washburn dale: Thou had better turn back and sit thee doon, And comfort thy heart wi' a drop o' good ale." The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squallcloud 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 To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, Till the muttered order of "Full and by !" Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!' The ship bends lower before the breeze, As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; And she swifter springs to the rising seas, As the pilot calls," Stand by for stays!" 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. |