he said:

"Not yet, my master, I would seize the

thought,

And on the fifteenth day Confucius rose And stood before Siang, and cried aloud : "The mist which shadowed me is blown away,

I am as one who stands upon a cliff
And gazes far and wide upon the world,
For I have mastered every secret thought,
Yea, every shadow of a feeling dim
Which flitted through the spirit of Wen
Wang

When he composed that air. I speak to him,

I hear him clearly answer me again; And more than that, I see his very form: A man of middle stature, with a hue Half blended with the dark and with the fair;

His features long, and large sweet eyes which beam

With great benevolence, -a noble face!
His voice is deep and full, and all his air
Inspires a sense of virtue and of love.
I know that I behold the very man,
The sage of ancient days, Wen Wang the
just.

Then good Siang lay down upon the dust, And said: "Thou art my master. Even thus

The ancient legend, known to none but me,

Describes our first great sire. And thou hast seen

Striving with all my soul to penetrate Its mystery unto the master's form, Whilst thou hast reached it at a single bound: -

Henceforth the gods alone can teach thee tune."

"And some do call me Life, sweetheart,
And some do call me Death;
And he to whom the two are one
Has won my heart and faith."

She twined her white arms round his neck:

The tears fell down like rain. "And if I live or if I die,

We'll never part again."

Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges, Heaven-descended, soon to heaven withdrawn,

Ever dwells the lesser in the greater;

In God's love the human: we by these Know he holds Love's simplest stammering sweeter

Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees.

UNKNOWN.

THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL

UP on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made,

Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June,

Ganges,

Was Urvasi, Daughter of the Dawn.

But it happened that the gentle maiden Loved one Puru-avas,-fateful name!— And her heart, with its sweet secret laden, Faltered when her time of utterance

came.

"I love"-then she stopped, and people wondered;

"I love"-she must guard her secret well;

Then from sweetest lips that ever blundered,

"I love Puru-avas," trembling fell.

Ah, what terror seized on poor Urvasi!

Misty grew the violets of her eyes, And her form bent like a broken daisy, While around her rose the mocking cries.

But great Indra said, "The maid shall marry

Him whose image in her faithful heart She so near to that of God doth carry, Scarce her lips can keep their names apart."

Call it then not weakness or dissembling,

If, in striving the high name to reach, Through our voices runs the tender trembling

Of an earthly name too dear for speech!

chanting their ceaseless tune: For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore,

Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more.

The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird,

and the priest's low tone were blent In the breeze that blew from the moor

land, all laden with country scent; But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains, Or of lilies deep in the wild-wood, or roses gemming the lanes, Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed

men who gathered around the

Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way; The lichen had a lovelier red,

The elder-flower a fairer gray.

And there was silence on the land,
Save when, from out the city's fold,
Stricken by Time's remorseless wand,
A bell across the morning tolled.

The beeches sighed through all their boughs;

The gusty pennons of the pine
Swayed in a melancholy drowse,
But with a motion sternly fine.

One gable, full against the sun,
Flooded the garden-space beneath
With spices, sweet as cinnamon,

From all its honeysuckled breath.

Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke,

The windmill shook its slanted arms,
The sun was up, the country woke!
And voices sounded mid the trees

Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees, From fields which promised tented sheaves;

Till the day waxed into excess,

And on the misty, rounding gray,-
One vast, fantastic wilderness,
The glowing roofs of London lay.

UNKNOWN.

THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS.

THE sea is calling, calling.
Wife, is there a log to spare?
Fling it down on the hearth and call
them in,

The boys and girls with their merry din,
I am loth to leave you all just yet,
In the light and the noise I might forget,
The voice in the evening air.

The sea is calling, calling,
Along the hollow shore.

I know each nook in the rocky strand,
And the crimson weeds on the golden sand,

And the worn old cliff where the seapinks cling,

And the winding caves where the echoes ring.

I shall wake them nevermore.
How it keeps calling, calling,
It is never a night to sail.

I saw the "sea-dog" over the height,
As I strained through the haze my fail-
ing sight,

And the cottage creaks and rocks, wellnigh,

As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by,
In the moan of the rising gale.

Yet it is calling, calling.
It is hard on a soul, I say,

To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark,

Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark;

While the foam flies thick on the bitter

blast,

And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, Where the black buoy marks the bay.

Do you hear it calling, calling?
And yet, I am none so old.
At the herring fishery, but last year,
No boat beat mine for tackle and gear,
And I steered the coble past the reef,
When the broad sail shook like a with-
ered leaf,

And the rudder chafed my hold.

Will it never stop calling, calling?
Can't you sing a song by the hearth?
A heartsome stave of a merry glass,
Or a gallant fight, or a bonnie lass?
Don't you care for your grand-dad just
so much?

Come near then, give me a hand to touch,
Still warm with the warmth of earth.

You hear it calling, calling?
Ask her why she sits and cries.
She always did when the sea was up,
She would fret, and never take bit or sup
When I and the lads were out at night,
And she saw the breakers cresting white
Beneath the low black skies.

But, then, it is calling, calling,
No summons to soul was sent.
Now- Well, fetch the parson, find the
book,

It is up on the shelf there if you look;