their barges slip
Upon a tide from which so few may part.

Ah, tide that hurries to the Land of Fear,
The arms are feeble, and perplexed the will,
And the hearts childish that must stem thy flow,
And it is sweet to rest, and hard to row.
I, too, have drifted on thy waters drear,
And but for grace divine were drifting still.

* * * * * *

Life's sea, at best, is but a lonely sea,
Yet thrice from angry winds and waters rude
The mem'ry of their bitter feud has flown
On the soft pinions of a gentle tone.
Thrice heavenly messengers have come to me
To break the bondage of my solitude.

And first, my mother's love, warm, tender, true,
To guide me o'er the billowy deep, was given;
E'en now I view her barge's silvery trail,
And faint, in distance, mark her snowy sail
Bloom like a lily on the water blue.
'Tis but a mirage, she is long in heaven.

O how my heart has hungered for her smile,
When life has pressed me with a weight of cares,
Yet I have thought, wherever I have been,
Some gentle power was leading me from sin
To virtue's sweeter, nobler way the while.
It was the power, dear mother, of thy prayers.

One morning when, like Cana's Lord, the sun
Had changed the waiting water into wine,
Sped o'er the rosy tide a seraph bright,
Within a craft of pearl and crystal light,
And still she sped until our ways were one,
And I was hers, for aye, and she was mine.

Once, when my tears were falling on the wake
Which far and near my wayward path betrayed,
Shone there upon me in that fateful hour,
A Holy Being, clothed in light and power.
And with Him came th' eternal morning's break.
How sweet His words, 'Tis I, be not afraid.

Thus to the soul of man there come alone
Three sacred ones upon the Sea of Life;
All others are as distant sails that fly
Far from the ken, and so forever by:
And he is blest whose faithful heart hath known
And loved the name of Savior, Mother, Wife.

Thus o'er the Sea of Life my way I take,
Not waveless have its waters been to me,
For I have known, in many a fearful hour,
The weight and fury of the tempest's power;
But mercy e'er the sable clouds doth break
And set the prisoned light of heaven free.

And oft, O sea, thy troubled waters cease,
Save when they smile to hear the breeze at prayer;
Thy calm so deep that he who glideth by
May wonder which is sea and which is sky;
So full thou art of stars, so sweet thy peace,
We seem in heaven while on thy bosom fair.

IV.—AGE.

My boat is old, for I have journeyed far,
But still the Headland seems a weary way;
My boatmen, too, are old, and oft an oar
Slips from a feeble hand, but yet the shore
Upon whose forehead beams the evening star,
Is nearer still and nearer every day.

What matters that my boatmen now are old,
Why should I grieve that with a feeble hand
I hold the swaying helm? The waves no more
Rise o'er the prow to keep me from the shore,
The silken sail at last the breezes hold,
The tide of Love sets toward the Heavenly Land.

O flowing tide that in our autumn time
Ebbs from the world, and bears us on thy breast,
I would to every human soul 'twere given
To drift upon thy silver sheen to heaven;
To fall asleep, and dream, and wake—SUBLIME,
Within the crystal harbor of The Blest.

Dear are thy urging waters, starry tide,
Forever gently flowing heavenward;
Thine every dimple is a token sweet
That rested there some beauteous angel's feet,
Thy sheen, a radiant carpet for the Bride,
Laid to the wedding Temple of her Lord.

Soon o'er the wave my boat no more will ride, The music of the dipping oar will cease, And through the glimmering golden mist will fall, From the calm Headland's height, a loving call, Come hither, child, forevermore abide Within thy Father's House—at Home—in Peace.

L'ENVOY.

Hark! there is music on the lovelit sea.
Music, sweet music falls upon mine ear,
Soft as the sigh of June, when die the hours
Crimsoned with sunset and the blush of flowers.
Dost thou not hear it? O it seems to me
No mother's cradle-song was e'er so dear.

The music ceases. From the eastern sky,
Lo! the umbrageous clouds, whose gloomy frown
Shadowed my youth, drift westward, dark no more,
They float illumined o'er the heavenly shore.
Behold, they part! and thro' their portals high
The gleams of endless glory shimmer down.

Farewell, O Deep, nor be thy solemn bell
Jarred as I go by grief's tumultuous blast.
Farewell, ye winds, for me ye ne'er again
Will fret the bosom of the restless main.
To thee, O Barge of Time, a long farewell,
Sweet voices call me. I am home at last.

Give ear, O Earth, the honeyed air again
Swells with the rapture of the heavenly shore;
And I am singing as I upward pass
Upon the "sea of mingled fire and glass,"
To Him who Loved and gave Himself for Men,
Be Glory, Honor, Power, Forevermore.

THE SEVEN SLEEPERS.

Inscribed to

Robert Collyer.

THE SEVEN SLEEPERS.

We seem within a pleasant vale to dwell,
Whose boundary knows the early summer's spell,
And where, in leafy tabernacle, June
Hears not the mandate of the waning moon.
The river bank and hill-side of the vale,
And orchard fruitage streaked with morning pale,
Grow rosy with the rosy summer hours.
Green is the dewy turf and gay with flowers.
The morning sky is azure; we behold
The white clouds sleeping on the eastern hill,
At eve—a fleecy flock—they follow still
The shepherd sun upon his path of gold.
Sweet is the air, and peace is everywhere:
Save that in distant skies beyond our time
We mark the vivid shafts of lightning fly,
Shot from the twanging bow of thunder where
The sky is bright with pale auroral light,
Framed in by darkness; there we view
The stern death-struggling of armed hosts—
The smoke of burning cities—martyr fires—
Towers toppling to ruin, palaces,
Vast columned temples, and triumphal arch,
Fair hanging gardens, walls magnificent,
Resolved to dust by time—as summer's sun
Resolves again a fleecy cloud to mist.
Yet sometimes even here the spectral light
Broadens and brightens into sunny day,
And the soft winds (the sweeter for the war
Of elements,) blow thence to us Legends,—
Traditions fair of noble hearts as true,
Of honor pure, of love as sacred—deep—
Of valor great—of homes as fair and dear,
As fresher, better modern days have known.
I love the Legend of the Sleepers Seven,
Which comes from days so near the Manger—Cross,
It seems to me a tale of Holy Writ.

When Decius sate upon the Roman Throne,
And made his empire red with Christian blood,
Seven noble youths who dwelt at Ephesus
(Noble in birth and every Christian grace)
Refused to heed the Imperial will and bow