I stood on the shore at even, And I looked out into the west, Out over the pathless ocean, As the sun sank down to rest. I saw him dip into the billows, And the sea was one blaze of light, As if day's expiring effort Was to blacken the darkness of night. From my feet to the far horizon Was a golden sparkling road, A type of the path that leads us From earth to God's abode. As darkness fell on the waters, I heard the sea-birds' cry, And the mighty ocean answered With its waves in an endless sigh. Then I thought how like the sunlight We find our hopes depart, And the ocean's endless sighing Found an echo in my heart. F. W. D., St. Alban Hall. _College Rhymes_ (T. Shrimpton and Sons, Oxford), 1873. * * * * * THE SLAVE'S DREAM. Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand, Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land * * * * * The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty: And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free, That be started in his sleep, and smiled At their tempestuous glee. He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! LONGFELLOW. * * * * * THE SWELL'S DREAM; OR, WHAT HIS HEIR WOULD LIKE TO BRING ABOUT. (_Dedicated by a Shortman to a Longfellow._) I. Beside an untouched ice he lay, An eighteenpenny cigar in his hand, He shook his hair with an angry air At the sound of a distant band. Then he dreamt in the mist and shadow of sleep He was a beggar in the Strand. II. Wide through his frock-coat's gaping seams His fancy shirting showed; He had no gloves, no crutchy cane, No nosegay _a la mode;_ And he saw a man, with a tinkling pan, Crying m-u-lk all down the road! III. He felt quite sore, and very lean, His face was sadly tanned; His bones stuck out on both his cheeks, And he could hardly stand. A tear dropped from the sleeper's lids, His Havanna from his hand. IV. And then the dismal vision showed The way in which he sank; From golden chains, to aches and pains, With no balance at the bank. For this woe he could feel, and it caused him to reel, He had but himself to thank. V. From a popular man, dubbed a wit and a wag, To a pauper without a _sous;_ From morn till night, like an unhappy wight, Cut or shunned by all he knew. And this was his fate, by stopping up late, And losing his money at "loo!"