Oh! will our palm cling to another palm Loath, loath to loose our hold of love's warm grasp. Or shall we free our hand from the hand of grief, And reach it gladly out to meet his clasp? Sometimes I marvel when we two shall meet, When I shall hear that stealthy step, and see The unseen form that haunteth mortal dreams, The stern-browed face, the eyes of mystery. Shall I be waiting for some wished-for wealth, Impatient, by the shore of a purple sea? But when the vessel's keel grates on the sand, Will HE lean down its side and call to me? Shall I in thymy pastures cool and sweet See the lark soaring through the rosy air? Ah, then, will his dark face look down on me, 'Neath the white splendor of the morning star. Shall I be resting from the noonday blaze, In the rich summer of a blossoming land, And idly glancing through the lotus leaves, Behold the shadow of his beckoning hand? Or in some inland village, shaded deep, With silence brooding o'er the quiet place, Shall I look from some lattice crowned with flowers, In the calm twilight and behold his face? Or shall I over such a lonely way, Beset with fears, my weary footsteps wend, So desolate, that I shall greet his face With joy as a desired and welcome friend? Oh, little matters it when we shall meet, Upon the quiet shore, or on the sea, If he shall lead us to the golden gate, Dear Lord, if he shall lead us unto Thee. SLEEP. Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night, Come with the stars and the white moonbeams, Come with your train of handmaids bright, Blessed and beautiful dreams. Bring the exile to his home again, Let him catch the gleam of its low white wall; Let his wife cling to his neck and weep, And his children come at their father's call. Give to the mother the child she lost, Laid from her heart to a clay-cold bed; Let its breath float over her tear-wet cheek, And her cold heart warm 'neath its bright young head. Take the sinner's hand and lead him back To his sinless youth and his mother's knee; Let him kneel again 'neath her tender look, And murmur the prayer of his infancy. Lead the aged into that wondrous clime, Home of their youth and land of their bliss; Let them forget in that beautiful world, The sin and the sorrow of this. And gently lead my love, my own, Tenderly clasp her snow-white hand, Wrap her in garments of soft repose, And lead her into your mystic land. Let your fairest handmaids bow at her feet, Her path o'er your loveliest roses be; And let all the flowers with their perfumed lips Whisper of me--of me. Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night, Come with the stars and the white moonbeams, Come with your train of handmaids bright, Blessed and beautiful dreams. THE SONG OF THE SIREN.