They sailed! They sailed! Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night; He curls his lip, he lies in wait With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Adm'ral, say but one good word,-- What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leaped as a leaping sword: "Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!" C.H. MILLER. [6] From The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller. Paradisi Gloria. There is a city, builded by no hand, And unapproachable by sea or shore, And unassailable by any band Of storming soldiery for evermore. There we no longer shall divide our time By acts or pleasures,--doing petty things Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme; But we shall sit beside the silver springs That flow from God's own footstool, and behold Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few Who loved us once and were beloved of old, To dwell with them and walk with them anew, In alternations of sublime repose, Musical motion, the perpetual play Of every faculty that Heaven bestows Through the bright, busy, and eternal day. T.W. PARSONS. Ballad. In the summer even, While yet the dew was hoar, I went plucking purple pansies, Till my love should come to shore. The fishing-lights their dances Were keeping out at sea, And come, I sung, my true love! Come hasten home to me! But the sea, it fell a-moaning, And the white gulls rocked thereon; And the young moon dropped from heaven, And the lights hid one by one. All silently their glances Slipped down the cruel sea, And wait! cried the night and wind and storm,-- Wait, till I come to thee! H.P. SPOFFORD. BOOK THIRD. The Fool's Prayer. The royal feast was done; the King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!" The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose: "O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! "No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! "'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 'Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. "These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. "The ill-timed truth we might have kept-- Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say-- Who knows how grandly it had rung?