Whose ministry hath symboled sweet
The dearer love of God,—

The sacred myrtle wreathes again
Thine altar, as of old;

And what was green with summer then,
Is mellowed now to gold.

Not now, as then, the Future's face
Is flushed with fancy's light;
But Memory, with a milder grace,
Shall rule the feast to-night.
Blest was the sun of joy that shone,

Nor less the blinding shower-
The bud of fifty years agone

Is Love's perfected flower.

O Memory, ope thy mystic door!

O dream of youth, return!

And let the lights that gleamed of yore
Beside this altar burn!

The past is plain; 't was Love designed
E'en Sorrow's iron chain,

And Mercy's shining thread has twined
With the dark warp of Pain.

So be it still. O thou who hast

That younger bridal blest,

Till the May-morn of love has passed
To evening's golden west,
Come to this later Cana, Lord,

And, at thy touch divine,

The water of that earlier board

To-night shall turn to wine.

Tacking Ship off Shore.

THE weather leech of the topsail shivers,

DAVID GRAY.

The bowlines strain, and the lee shrouds slacken,

The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers,

And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken.

Open one point on the weather bow,

Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head. There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow,

And the pilot watches the heaving lead.

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,
Till the muttered order of "Full and by!"
Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!"

The ship bends lower before the breeze,

As her broadside fair to the blast she lays;
And she swifter springs to the rising seas,
As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"

It is silence all, as each in his place,

With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,

Waiting the watchword, impatient stands.

And the light on Fire Island Head draws near,
As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout
From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear,
With the welcome call of "Ready! About!"

No time to spare! It is touch and go;

And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!" As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw,

While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown.

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,

As we meet the shock of the plunging sea;
And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay,
As I answer, "Ay, ay, Sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!"

With the swerving leap of a startled steed,

The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind;

The dangerous shoals on the lee recede,

And the headland white we have left behind.

The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse,

And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps;

And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!

Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew,
Hisses the rain of the rushing squall;

The sails are aback from clew to clew,

And now is the moment for "Mainsail haul!”

And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy,
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung;

She holds her way, and I look with joy

For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung.

"Let go, and haul!" 'T is the last command,

And the head-sails, fill to the blast once more; Astern and to leeward lies the land,

With its breakers white on a shingly shore.

What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?
I steady the helm for the open sea;

The first mate clamors, "Belay there, all!"

And the captain's breath once more comes free.

And so off shore let the good ship fly;
Little care I how the gusts may blow,

In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry,

Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.

༄-:

WALTER MITCHELL

The Mistress of the House.

THE guests are come, all silent they have waited;
Entering the noiseless hush with silent bows,

They linger for her coming, sore belated—
Where is the little mistress of the house?

She is not wont to leave her friends so lonely
That come too seldom, as she gayly vow;
Yet they are here, and wait her pleasure only-
Where is the little mistress of the house?

She cannot be far off-perhaps but sleeping;
Doubtless at their low call she would arouse;
Why do they summon her alone with weeping?
Where is the little mistress of the house?

The portraits stare behind their veiling covers;
The dust is in the melancholy room,

Upon the air a ghastly silence hovers-
Within the threshold loneliness and gloom.

Cold, dark, and desolate the place without her,
Wanting her gentle smile as each allows;
She bears a sunbeam light and warmth about her-
Where is the little mistress of the house?

The curtains fall, undraped by her slight fingers,
Behind the wainscot gnaws a secret mouse,
Her treasures need her care, but still she lingers-
Where is the little mistress of the house?

Alas! there was a rumor and a whisper
Threading the busy town, this many days;
The youngest baby here, a tiny lisper,

Can falter forth the reason why she stays,

Why care and love, the tenderest and sincerest,

Have failed to shield and guard her fair young head
Why she has fled from all she loved the dearest-
For there has been a rumor, she is dead.

Throw wide the door! Within the gloomy portal,
Where her small feet fell light as falling snow,
They bear her in, the mortal made immortal!
She comes again, but heavenly and slow!

O empty shell! O beautiful frail prison!

Cold, white, and vacant, tenantless and dumb, From such poor clay as this has Christ arisenFor such as this He shall in glory come!

But in the calm indifference to our sorrow,

In the sharp anguish of her parting breath, In the dark gulf that hides her form to-morrow, Thou hast thy victory, Grave; thy sting, O Death!

Yet shall she walk so fair that we who knew her,
Would pale before the glory of her brows,
Nor in the radiant beauty dare to woo her
To be again the mistress of the house.

LESLIE WALTER

En the Hospital.

I LAY me down to sleep,

With little thought or care
Whether my waking find
Me here, or there.

A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.

My good right hand forgets

Its cunning now;

To march the weary march

I know not how.

I am not eager, bold,

Nor strong all that is past;

I am ready not to do

At last, at last.