Beckoning for thee!

Look down beneath thy wave-worn 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 glowing 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! "

Nantasket, July, 1840.

9

SERENADE.

FROM the close-shut windows gleams no spark,
The night is chilly, the night is dark,

The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan,
My hair by the autumn breeze is blown,
Under thy window I sing alone,
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The darkness is pressing coldly around,
The windows shake with a lonely sound,
The stars are hid and the night is drear,
The heart of silence throbs in thine ear,
In thy chamber thou sittest alone,
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The world is happy, the world is wide,
Kind hearts are beating on every side

Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled
Alone in the shell of this great world?
Why should we any more be alone?

Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

O, 't is a bitter and dreary word,

The saddest by man's ear ever heard!

We each are young, we each have a heart,
Why stand we ever coldly apart?

Must we for ever, then, be alone?
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

1840.

IRENÈ.

'HERS is a spirit deep and crystal-clear;
Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies,
Free without boldness, meek without a fear,
Quicker to look than speak its sympathies ;
Far down into her large and patient eyes

I

gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite,

As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night,

I look into the fathomless blue skies.

So circled lives she with Love's holy light, That from the shade of self she walketh free;