Those golden days for them shall dawn, Transcending aught we gaze upon.

ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON.

[U. s. A.]

A CRY FROM THE SHORE.

COME down, ye graybeard mariners,
Unto the wasting shore!

The morning winds are up, - the gods
Bid me to dream no more.
Come, tell me whither I must sail
What peril there may be,
Before I take my life in hand
And venture out to sea!

"We may not tell thee where to sail, Nor what the dangers are; Each sailor soundeth for himself;

Each hath a separate star: Each sailor soundeth for himself, And on the awful sea

What we have learned is ours alone;
We may not tell it thee."

Come back, O ghostly mariners,
Ye who have gone before!
I dread the dark, impetuous tides;
I dread the farther shore.
Tell me the secret of the waves!

Say what my fate shall beQuick! for the mighty winds are up, And will not wait for me.