They grappled with their prize, Southward, through day and dark, With mist and rain, to the Spanish Main; Southward, for ever southward, They drift through dark and day; And like a dream, in the Gulf Stream Sinking, vanish all away. THE LIGHTHOUSE. THE rocky ledge runs far into the sea, Even at this distance I can see the tides, Upheaving, break unheard along its base, A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides. In the white lip and tremour of the face. And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright, Through the deep purple of the twilight air, Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light, With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare! Not one alone; from each projecting cape Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. Like the great giant Christopher, it stands And the great ships sail outward and return, They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. They come forth from the darkness, and their sails Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, And eager faces, as the light unveils, Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. The mariner remembers when a child, On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink; Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. The startled waves leap over it; the storm Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, "Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships! And with your floating bridge the ocean span; Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!" THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. WE sat within the farm-house old, Not far away we saw the port The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,The light-house, the dismantled fort,The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, The first slight swerving of the heart, And leave it still unsaid in part, The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark ; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap, and then expire. And, as their splendour flashed and failed, The windows, rattling in their frames,— Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain,― O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. BY THE FIRESIDE. RESIGNATION. THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, |