In pensive mood I stood upon the quay, Where busy Commerce plied her energy; Where loading vessels hung their sails at rest, And rose and fell, upon the water’s breast. Where busy little tugs with hissing steam Buried their noses in the foaming stream. Near by, a steamer in a paneled wharf Chafed at her chains and panted to be off. A strange, mysterious ship, no pennon bold Her nation or her destination told; No crew was seen, no farewell song was sung, No parting loved ones to each other clung; No wife was weeping on her husband’s neck, No mother blessed her wayward boy on deck. A ceaseless throng pressed through the cabin door, As if they longed to leave their native shore; No backward glance, no tearful farewell view, And no one seemed to think home worth adieu. At last the bell was rung, the plank was drawn, And with a shivering sigh, the ship was gone. Then as I marked her curving track of foam, I wondered in what waters she would roam; I thought of those on board, the reckless air Of their departure, and I breathed a prayer. A red-haired man stood turning up a wheel, That wound a clanking chain upon a reel; I laid a coin upon his brawny hand, And asked him, “Who thus leave their native land?” He leaned upon his wheel and closed one eye, As if the lid were burdened with a sty; Then with a laugh he answered, “By the devil’s spleen and liver, It’s on’y a Fulton ferry-boat a’gwine a’gross East River.” TO M----, FROM E---- WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BIBLE One year of sweetest love intense! One year of mutual confidence! One year of gazing into eyes, In which the love-light never dies! One year of clasping hands, that thrill With throbbing love from life’s red rill One year of clouds, whose transient shade The after glory brighter made! One year of doubts, whose fleeting rust Could not corrode our links of trust! One year of prayer, whose pleading tone Has for _each other_ sued the Throne! One year _together_--may it prove Prophetic of our earthly love! One year _each other’s_--may it be A type of our _eternity_! _Sunday, May, 1871._ UNDER THE PINES “TELL THEM TO BURY ME UNDER THE PINES AT HOME.” FROM “SEA GIFT.” I would not rest in the moldering tomb Of the grim church-yard, where the ivy twines, But make me a grave in the forest’s gloom, Where the breezes wave, like a soldier’s plume, Each dark-green bough of the dear old pines; Where the lights and shadows softly merge, And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines; Where the sea winds, sad with the sob of the surge, From the harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge For the dead beneath the sighing pines.