“The other day?” the sailor’s eyes Stood open with a great surprise,―― “The other day? the _Swan_?” His heart began in his throat to rise. “Aye, aye, sir, here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on.” “And so your lad is gone?” “Gone with the _Swan_.” “And did she stand With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, For a month, and never stir?” “Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand, The wild sea kissing her,―― A sight to remember, sir.” “But, my good mother, do you know All this was twenty years ago? I stood on the _Gray Swan’s_ deck, And to that lad I saw you throw, Taking it off, as it might be, so! The kerchief from your neck.” “Aye, and he’ll bring it back!” “And did the little lawless lad, That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the _Gray Swan’s_ crew?” “Lawless! the man is going mad! The best boy mother ever had,―― Be sure he sailed with the crew! What would you have him do?” “And he has never written a line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign To say he was alive!” “Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine; Besides, he may be in the brine, And could he write from the grave? Tut, man, what would you have?” Gone twenty years――a long, long cruise,―― ’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; But if the lad still live, And come back home, think you can Forgive him?” “Miserable man, You’re mad as the sea,――you rave,―― What have I to forgive?” The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild. “My God! my Father! is it true? My little lad, my Elihu! My blessed boy, my child! My dead, my living child!” * * * * * TO THE EVENING ZEPHYR.¹ ALICE CARY. ¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. I SIT where the wild-bee is humming, And listen in vain for thy song; I’ve waited before for thy coming, But never, oh, never so long! How oft with the blue sky above us, And waves breaking light on the shore, Thou, knowing they would not reprove us, Hast kissed me a thousand times o’er! Alone in the gathering shadows, Still waiting, sweet Zephyr, for thee, I look for the waves of the meadows, And dimples to dot the blue sea. The blossoms that waited to greet thee With heat of the noontide oppressed, Now flutter so light to meet thee, Thou’rt coming, I know, from the west. Alas! if thou findest me pouting, ’Tis only my love that alarms; Forgive, then, I pray thee, my doubting, And take me once more to thine arms! * * * * * DEATH SCENE.¹