Full of rest, the green moss lifts,
As the dark waves of the sea
Draw in and out of rocky rifts,
Calling solemnly to thee
With voices deep and hollow
To the shore

Follow! O, follow!

To be at rest for evermore!

For evermore!'

Look how the grey, old Ocean
From the depth of his heart rejoices,
Heaving with a gentle motion,

When he hears our restful voices;
List how he sings in an undertone,
Chiming with our melody;

And all sweet sounds of earth and air

Melt into one low voice alone,

That murmurs over the weary sea,

And seems to sing from everywhere,

'Here mayest thou harbor peacefully,
Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar;
Turn thy curvéd prow ashore,

And in our green isle rest for evermore!
For evermore!'

And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill,
And, to her heart so calm and deep,
Murmurs over in her sleep,

Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still,
"Evermore!'

Thus, on Life's weary sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing low and clear,

Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be,
Than to be toiling late and soon?
In the dreary night to see
Nothing but the blood-red moon
Go up and down into the sea;
Or, in the loneliness of day,
To see the still seals only
Solemnly lift their faces grey,
Making it yet more lonely?
Is it not better, than to hear
Only the sliding of the wave
Beneath the plank, and feel so near

A cold and lonely grave,

A restless grave, where thou shalt lie

Even in death unquietly?

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark,

Lean over the side and see

The leaden eye of the sidelong shark
Upturned patiently,

Ever waiting there for thee:

Look down and see those shapeless forms,

Which ever keep their dreamless sleep Far down within the gloomy deep, And only stir themselves in storms, Rising like islands from beneath, And snorting through the angry spray, As the frail vessel perisheth

In the whirls of their unwieldy play;

Look down! Look down!

Upon the sea-weed, slimy and dark,

That waves its arms so lank and brown,
Beckoning for thee!

Look down beneath thy wave-torn bark
Into the cold depth of the sea!

Look down! Look down!

Thus, on Life's lonely sea,
Heareth the marinere
Voices sad, from far and near,
Ever singing full of fear,
Ever singing drearfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream;
The wind scarce shaketh down the dew,
The green grass floweth like a stream
Into the ocean's blue;

Listen! O, listen!

Here is a gush of many streams,

A song of many birds,

And every wish and longing seems
Lulled to a numbered flow of words, -
Listen! O, listen!

Here ever hum the golden bees

Underneath full-blossomed trees,

At once with golden fruit and flowers crowned;

The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand,

That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land ;

All around, with a slumberous sound,

The singing waves slide up the strand,

And there, where the smooth wet pebbles be,
The waters gurgle longingly,

As if they fain would seek the shore,
To be at rest from the ceaseless roar,
To be at rest for evermore,

For evermore.

Thus, on Life's gloomy sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sweet, from far and near,

Ever singing in his ear,

'Here is rest and peace for thee !

J. R. Lowell,

THE CHAPEL BY THE SHORE.

By the shore, a plot of ground
Clips a ruined chapel round,
Buttressed with a grassy mound;

Where day and night and day go by,
And bring no touch of human sound.

Washing of the lonely seas,-
Shaking of the guardian trees, —

Piping of the salted breeze,

And day and night and day go by,
To the endless tune of these.

Or when winds and waters keep

A hush more dead than any sleep,

Still morns to stiller evenings creep,

And day and night and day go by;
Here the stillness is most deep.

And the ruins, lapsed again
Into Nature's wide domain,
Sow themselves with seed and grain,
As day and night and day go by,
And hoard June's sun and April's rain.

Here fresh funeral tears were shed;
And now the graves are also dead;
And suckers from the ash-tree spread,
As day and night and day go by,
And stars move calmly overhead.

W. ALLINGHAM.

THE BAY OF NAPLES.

THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,

The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent light:
The breath of the moist air is light,
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,

The City's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's.