Cargo reef in main and fore,
Manned by half a crew,
Romping up the weather shore,
Edging down the Blue-
That's the way the Coaster goes,
Scouting with the lead:
Everywhere the tide flows,
Everywhere the wind blows,

From Cruz to Quoddy Head.

THOMAS FLEMING DAY.

SMOKE.

LIGHT-WINGED Smoke! Icarian bird, Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight; Lark without song, and messenger of dawn Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; By night star-veiling, and by day

Darkening the light and blotting out the sun; Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth, And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU.

THE EVENING CLOUD.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow!

Even in its very motion there was rest;

While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven, Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.

JOHN WILSON (Christopher North).

A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN.

I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary
In the soft light of an autumnal day,
When Summer gathers up her robes of glory,
And like a dream of beauty glides away.

How through each loved, familiar path she lin

gers,

Serenely smiling through the golden mist, Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst;

Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls,

With hoary plumes the clematis entwining

Where o'er the rock her withered garland falls. Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning Beneath soft clouds along the horizon rolled, Till the slant sunbeams through their fringes raining

Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.

The moist winds breathe of crispèd leaves and flowers

In the damp hollows of the woodland sown,
Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers
With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown.

Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow,
Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground,
With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow
The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound.

Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding,

Like a fond lover loath to say farewell,

Or with shut wings, through silken folds intruding,

Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell.

The little birds upon the hillside lonely

Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray, Silent as a sweet wandering thought that only Shows its bright wings and softly glides away.

SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

THE SUNSET CITY.

THERE's a city that lies in the Kingdom of Clouds,

In the glorious country on high,

Which an azure and silvery curtain enshrouds, To screen it from mortal eye;

A city of temples and turrets of gold,

That gleam by a sapphire sea,

Like jewels more splendid than earth may behold, Or are dreamed of by you and by me.

And about it are highlands of amber that reach
Far away till they melt in the gloom;

And waters that hem an immaculate beach
With fringes of luminous foam.

Aerial bridges of pearl there are,
And belfries of marvellous shapes,
And lighthouses lit by the evening star,
That sparkle on violet capes;

And hanging gardens that far away
Enchantedly float aloof;

Rainbow pavilions in avenues gay,
And banners of glorious woof!

When the Summer sunset's crimsoning fires
Are aglow in the western sky,

The pilgrim discovers the domes and spires
Of this wonderful city on high;

And gazing enrapt as the gathering shade
Creeps over the twilight lea,

Sees palace and pinnacle totter and fade,
And sink in the sapphire sea;

Till the vision loses by slow degrees
The magical splendor it wore;

The silvery curtain is drawn, and he sees

The beautiful city no more!

HENRY SYLVESTER CORNWELL.

III.

PLACES.

THE NILE.

IT flows through old, hushed Egypt and its

sands,

Like some grave, mighty thought threading a

dream;

And times and things, as in that vision, seem Keeping along it their eternal stands,Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands That roamed through the young world, the glory extreme

Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam, The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.

Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong, As of a world left empty of its throng,

And the void weighs on us; and then we wake, And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along "Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for human sake.

LEIGH HUNT.