But now I see I was not plucked for nought, And after in life’s vase Of glass set while I might survive, But by a kind hand brought Alive To a strange place. That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours, And by another year, Such as God knows, with freer air, More fruits and fairer flowers Will bear, While I droop here. THE FISHER’S BOY[5] My life is like a stroll upon the beach, As near the ocean’s edge as I can go; My tardy steps its waves sometimes o’erreach, Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. My sole employment ’tis, and scrupulous care, To place my gains beyond the reach of tides, Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, Which Ocean kindly to my hand confides. I have but few companions on the shore: They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea; Yet oft I think the ocean they’ve sailed o’er Is deeper known upon the strand to me. The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view; Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew. THE ATLANTIDES ‘The Friend is some fair floating isle of palms eluding the mariner in Pacific Seas.’--_The Week._ The smothered streams of love, which flow More bright than Phlegethon, more low, Island us ever, like the sea, In an Atlantic mystery. Our fabled shores none ever reach, No mariner has found our beach, Scarcely our mirage now is seen, And neighboring waves with floating green, Yet still the oldest charts contain Some dotted outline of our main; In ancient times midsummer days Unto the western islands’ gaze, To Teneriffe and the Azores, Have shown our faint and cloud-like shores. But sink not yet, ye desolate isles, Anon your coast with commerce smiles, And richer freights ye’ll furnish far Than Africa or Malabar. Be fair, be fertile evermore, Ye rumored but untrodden shore; Princes and monarchs will contend Who first unto your lands shall send, And pawn the jewels of the crown To call your distant soil their own. Sea and land are but his neighbors, And companions in his labors, Who on the ocean’s verge and firm land’s end Doth long and truly seek his Friend. Many men dwell far inland, But he alone sits on the strand. Whether he ponders men or books, Always still he seaward looks, Marine news he ever reads, And the slightest glances heeds, Feels the sea breeze on his cheek, At each word the landsmen speak, In every companion’s eye A sailing vessel doth descry; In the ocean’s sullen roar From some distant port he hears, Of wrecks upon a distant shore, And the ventures of past years.