Look northward, where Duck Island lies,
And over its crown you will see arise,
Against a back-ground of slaty skies,

A row of pillars still and white,

That glimmer and then are out of sight, As if the moon should suddenly kiss

While you crossed the gusty desert by night,
The long colonnades of Persepolis,

And then as sudden a darkness should follow
To gulp the whole scene at a single swallow,
The city's ghost, the drear, brown waste,
And the string of camels, clumsy-paced:-
Look southward for White Island light,

The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide ;
There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight,
Of dash and roar, and tumble and fright,

And surging bewilderment wild and wide, Where the breakers struggle left and right, Then a mile or more of rushing sea,

And then the light-house slim and lone;

And whenever the whole weight of ocean is thrown

Full and fair on White Island head,

A great mist-jötun you will see
Lifting himself up silently

High and huge o'er the light-house top,

With hands of wavering spray outspread,

Groping after the little tower

That seems to shrink and shorten and cower,

Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop,

And silently and fruitlessly
He sinks again into the sea.

You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand,
Awaken once more to the rush and roar,
And on the rock-point tighten your hand,
As you turn and see a valley deep,

That was not there a moment before,
Suck rattling down between you and a heap
Of toppling billow, whose instant fall
Must sink the whole island once for all
Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas

Feeling their way to you more and more; If they once should clutch you high as the knees, They would hurl you down like a sprig of kelp, Beyond all reach of hope or help ;And such in a storm is Appledore.

J. R. LowEll.

EBB-TIDE.

THE tide has ebbed away ;

No more wild surgings 'gainst the adamant rocks, No swayings of the sea-weed false that mocks

The hues of gardens gay ;

No laugh of little wavelets at their play; No lucid pools reflecting Heaven's browBoth storm and calm alike are ended now.

The bare grey rocks sit lone;
The shifting sand lies so smooth and dry
That not a wave might ever have swept by
To vex it with loud moan;

Only some weedy fragment blackening thrown
To rot beneath the sky, tells what has been,
But Desolation's self has grown serene.

Afar the mountains rise,

And the broad estuary widens out,

All sunshine; wheeling round and round about,
Seaward, a white bird flies;

A bird? Nay, seems it rather in these eyes An angel; o'er Eternity's dim sea, Beck'ning-Come thou where all we glad souls be.'

O life! O silent shore,

Where we sit patient! O great sea beyond,

To which we look with solemn hope and fond,
But sorrowful no more !

Would we were disembodied souls to soar, And like white sea-birds wing the Infinite Deep!Till then, Thou, Just One! wilt our spirits keep.

ANONYMOUS.

THE FISHER.

THE water rolled · the water swelled,
A fisher sat thereby ;

Cool to his very heart he watched
His line with dreamy eye:

And while his dreamy watch he keeps
The parted waves unclose,

And forth from out the ocean deeps
A water maiden rose.

She sang to him, she spake to him,-
'My brood why lurest thou,

With human wit and human craft,
Up to the deadly glow?

Ah! couldst thou know, how well below
Our peaceful lives are passed,

Thou'dst leave thine earth and plunge beneath,
And breathe free health at last.

'Bathes not the golden sun his face
The moon too in the sea;

And rise they not from their resting-place
More beautiful to see?

And lures thee not the clear deep heaven
Within the waters blue

And thy form so fair, so mirrored there
In that eternal dew!'

The water rolled — the water swelled,
It reached his naked feet;

He felt, as at his love's approach,
His bounding bosom beat;

She spake to him, she sang to him,
His short suspense is o'er;
Half drew she him, half dropped he in,
And sank to rise no more.

From the German of GOETHE.

THE SYRENS.

THE sea is lonely, the sea is dreary,
The sea is restless and uneasy;
Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary,
Wandering thou knowest not whither; -
Our little isle is green and breezy,
Come and rest thee! O, come hither!
Come to this peaceful home of ours,

Where evermore

The low west wind creeps panting up the shore To be at rest among the flowers;