Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges, Heaven-descended, soon to heaven withdrawn, Ever dwells the lesser in the greater; In God's love the human: we by these Know he holds Love's simplest stammering sweeter Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees. UNKNOWN. THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL UP on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made, Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June, Fairer than the moon-flower of the And under the cliffs the billows were chanting their ceaseless tune: For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore, Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more. The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird, and the priest's low tone were blent In the breeze that blew from the moorland, all laden with country scent; But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains, Or of lilies deep in the wild-wood, or roses gemming the lanes, Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed men who gathered around the grave, Where lay the mate who had fought with them the battle of wind and wave. How boldly he steered the coble across the foaming bar, When the sky was black to the eastward and the breakers white on the Scar! How his keen eye caught the squall ahead, how his strong hand furled the sail, As we drove o'er the angry waters before the raging gale! How cheery he kept all the long dark night; and never a parson spoke Good words, like those he said to us, when at last the morning broke! So thought the dead man's comrades, as silent and sad they stood, While the prayer was prayed, the blessing said, and the dull earth struck the wood; UNKNOWN. eyes, 335 That here once looked on glowing skies, And the widow's sob and the orphan's | Now changed the scene and changed the wail jarred through the joyous air; How could the light wind o'er the sea, blow on so fresh and fair? How could the gay waves laugh and leap, landward o'er sand and stone, While he, who knew and loved them all lay lapped in clay alone? A score of horsemen here we rode, These scenes in glowing colors drest, The whispering woods and fragrant breeze And glistening crag in sunlit sky, My path was o'er the prairie wide, The rose that waved in morning air, Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue, These riven trees, this wind-swept plain The rocks rise black from storm-packed All checked the river's pleasant flow, Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way; The lichen had a lovelier red, The elder-flower a fairer gray. And there was silence on the land, The beeches sighed through all their boughs; The gusty pennons of the pine One gable, full against the sun, From all its honeysuckled breath. Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke, The windmill shook its slanted arms, The sun was up, the country woke! And voices sounded mid the trees Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees, From fields which promised tented sheaves; Till the day waxed into excess, And on the misty, rounding gray,One vast, fantastic wilderness, The glowing roofs of London lay. UNKNOWN. THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS. THE sea is calling, calling. The boys and girls with their merry din, The sea is calling, calling, I know each nook in the rocky strand, And the worn old cliff where the seapinks cling, And the winding caves where the echoes ring. I shall wake them nevermore. I saw the "sea-dog" over the height, And the cottage creaks and rocks, wellnigh, As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by, Yet it is calling, calling. To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark, Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark; While the foam flies thick on the bitter blast, And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, Where the black buoy marks the bay. Do you hear it calling, calling? And the rudder chafed my hold. Will it never stop calling, calling? Come near then, give me a hand to touch, You hear it calling, calling? But, then, it is calling, calling, It is up on the shelf there if you look; MARY N. PRESCOTT. ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 337 The sea has been friend, and fire, and TWO MOODS. Singing along the river-side; I PLUCKED the harebells as I went Of sunshine. "Ah! whate'er betide, The curlews called along the shore; Perhaps, to-day, some other one, The world is sweet.' ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done? I FOUND a fellow-worker when I deemed "I've been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie; I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby; By and by I shall teach them to fly, Up and away, every one!" Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you going? "To fill my basket with precious pelf; To toil for my neighbor as well as myself; To find out the sweetest flower that grows, Be it a thistle or be it a rose, A secret worth the knowing!" Each content with the work to be done, Wind and rain fulfilling His word! Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred? I toiled alone: My toil was fashioning thought and sound, and his was hewing stone; I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the common street, And it seemed his toil was great and hard, while mine was great and sweet. "And yet for days it seems my heart shall | That while they nobly held it as each blossom never more, And the burden of my loneliness lies on "The sun grew on the world, and on my soul the thought grew too, A great appalling sun, to light my soul the long day through. I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began With man's gigantic strength to do the labor of one man. "I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hundred men, The worker with the chisel and the worker with the pen, The restless toilers after good, who sow and never reap, And one who maketh music for their souls that may not sleep. "Each passed me with a dauntless look, and my undaunted eyes Were almost softened as they passed with tears that strove to rise At sight of all those labors, and because that every one, Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little were undone. "They passed me, having faith in me, and in our several ways, Together we began to-day as on the other days: I felt their mighty hands at work, and, as the day wore through, Perhaps they felt that even I was helping somewhat too: "Perhaps they felt, as with those hands they lifted mightily The burden once more laid upon the world so heavily, man can do and bear, It did not wholly fall my side as though no man were there. "And so we toil together many a day from morn till night, I in the lower depths of life, they on the lovely height; For though the common stones are mine, and they have lofty cares, Their work begins where this leaves off, and mine is part of theirs. "And 't is not wholly mine or theirs I think of through the day, But the great eternal thing we make together, I and they; Far in the sunset I behold a city that |