Still the old tale; these dreaming islanders, Each with hot Sunderbunds a somewhat owns That calls, the grandsire's blood within them stirs Dutch Java guards his bones. And these were orphan'd when a leak was sprung Far out from land when all the air was balm; The shipmen saw their faces as they hung, And sank in the glassy calm. These, in an orange-sloop their father plied, Deck-laden deep she sailed from Cadiz town, A black squall rose, she turned upon her side, Drank water and went down. They too shall sail. High names of alien lands Are in the dream, great names their fathers knew; Madras, the white surf rearing on her sands, E'en they shall breast it too. See threads of scarlet down fell Roa creep, When moaning winds rend back her vapourous veil; Wild Orinoco wedge-like split the deep, Raging forth passion-pale; Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering tall, Great as a town adrift come shining on With sharp spires, gemlike as the mystical Clear city of Saint John. Still the old tale; but they are children yet; O let their mothers have them while they may! Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fret That mars both toil and play. The sea will claim its own; and some shall mourn; They also, they, but yet will surely go; So surely as the planet to its bourne, The chamois to his snow. 'Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed; We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell.' 'Mother, dear mother--' 'Nay, 't is all decreed. Dear hearts, farewell, farewell!' DORA. A waxing moon that, crescent yet, In all its silver beauty set, And rose no more in the lonesome night To shed full-orbed its longed-for light. Then was it dark; on wold and lea, In home, in heart, the hours were drear. Father and mother could no light see, And the hearts trembled and there was fear. --So on the mount, Christ's chosen three, Unware that glory it did shroud, Feared when they entered into the cloud. She was the best part of love's fair Adornment, life's God-given care, As if He bade them guard His own, Who should be soon anear His throne. Dutiful, happy, and who say When childhood smiles itself away, 'More fair than morn shall prove the day.' Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest, How shall be bettering of your best! That promise heaven alone shall view, That hope can ne'er with us come true, That prophecy life hath not skill, No, nor time leave that it fulfil. There is but heaven, for childhood never Can yield the all it meant, for ever. Or is there earth, must wane to less What dawned so close by perfectness. How guileless, sweet, by gift divine, How beautiful, dear child, was thine-- Spared all their grief of thee bereaven. Winner, who had not greatly striven, Hurts of sin shall not thee soil, Carking care thy beauty spoil. So early blest, so young forgiven.