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Still Bertha waited on the cliff,
Winging the unforgotten home;
Married a wreath of wandering foam.
Was it well? you ask - (nay, was it ill?) – Who sat last year by the old man's hearth;The sun had passed below the earth,
And the first star locked its western gate, When Bertha entered his darkening home, And smiling said, 'He does not come,
But, dearest father, we still can wait!'
HOPES AND WAVES.
HOPES on hopes from the bosom sever,
That the billows heave with a ceaseless motion
My hopes retire, my wishes as before
W. S. LANDOR.
WRITING ON THE SANDS.
I PAUSED at early morn to trace
Nor cared to think how soon the race
But now the broad'ning blue expanse
Farther the curling waves advance,
alas that human pride
With yonder words beneath the tide,
And dare I deem that all this strife
Will find a better goal?
Oh, coward! when the trumpet's call
Is sounding in thy heart, Pause not to basely reckon all The risks to triumph or to fall, But forth and act thy part!
I know not if the bearded grain
Mine autumn hours. Yet not in vain
Oh Love, that askest but to be!
Oh Faith, that will not die!
Life, courage, strength, ye are to me, While all things change, and fade, and flee, In ocean, earth, and sky.
W. H. HURLBUT.
My life is like a stroll upon the beach,
My sole employment 'tis, and scrupulous care To set my gains beyond the reach of tides, Each smoother pebble and each shell more rare, Which ocean kindly to my hand confides.
I have but few companions on the shore,
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea ; Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er, Is deeper known upon the strand to me.
The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view, Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,
And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.
H. D. THOREAU.