foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter, Benedicite!

Exit.

(A pause. Then enter BARTOLOMÉ wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carabine in his hand.) Bartolomé. They passed this way! I hear their horses' hoofs ! Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo, This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last!

(Fires down the pass.)

Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo !
Well whistled !-I have missed her!-Oh-

(The shot is returned. BARTOLOMÉ falls.)

THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE.

DEDICATION.

As one who, walking in the twilight gloom,
Hears round about him voices as it darkens,
And seeing not the forms from which they come,
Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens:

So walking here in twilight, O my friends,

I hear your voices, softened by the distance,
And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends
His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance.

If any thought of mine, or sung or told,
Has ever given delight or consolation,
Ye have repaid me back a thousandfold,
By every friendly sign or salutation.

Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown.
Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token,

That teaches me, when seeming most alone,

Friends are around us, though no word be spoken.

Kind messages, that pass from land to land;
Kind letters that betray the heart's deep history,
In which we feel the pressure of a hand.—

One touch of fire, and all the rest is mystery!

The pleasant books, that silently among

Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue

Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces!

Perhaps on earth I never shall behold,

With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance; Therefore to me ye never will grow old,

But live for ever young in my remembrance.

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away;
Your gentle voices will flow on for ever,
When life grows bare and tarnished with decay,

As through a leafless landscape flows a river.
Not chance of birth or place has made us friends,
Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations,
But the endeavour for the selfsame ends,

With the same hopes and fears and aspirations.

Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk,
Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion;
Not interrupting with intrusive talk

The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean.
Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest,

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted To have my place reserved among the rest,

Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited!

BY THE SEASIDE.

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP "BUILD me straight, O worthy master! Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster,

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"

The merchant's word,

Delighted the Master heard ;

For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace to every Art.

A quiet smile played round his lips,

As the eddies and dimples of the tide
Play round the bows of ships,
That steadily at anchor ride.

And with a voice that was full of glee
He answered, “Ere long we will launch
A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch
As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
And first, with nicest skill and art,
Perfect and finished in every part,
A little model the Master wrought,
Which should be to the larger plan
What the child is to the man,
Its counterpart in miniature;
That with a hand more swift and sure
The greater labour might be brought
To answer to his inward thought.
And as he laboured, his mind ran o'er
The various ships that were built of yore,
And above them all, and strangest of all,
Towered the great Harry, crank and tall,
Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
With bows and stern raised high in air,

And balconies hanging here and there,
And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
And eight round towers, like those that frown
From some old castle looking down
Upon the drawbridge and the moat.

And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,

Shall be of another form than this!"

It was of another form, indeed;

Built for freight, and yet for speed,

A beautiful and gallant craft;

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,

Pressing down upon sail and mast,

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ;
Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
With graceful curve and slow degrees,
That she might be docile to the helm,
And that the currents of parted seas,
Closing behind, with mighty force,
Might aid and not impede her course.
In the shipyard stood the Master,
With the model of the vessel,
That should laugh at all disaster,
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle
Covering many a rood of ground,
Lay the timber piled around;
Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,
And, scattered here and there, with these,
The knarred and crooked cedar knees;
Brought from regions far away,
From Pascagoula's sunny bay,
And the banks of the roaring Roanoke!
Ah! what a wondrous thing it is

To note how many wheels of toil

One thought, one word, can set in motion !
There's not a ship that sails the ocean,

But every climate, every soil,

Must bring its tribute, great or small,
And help to build the wooden wall!
The sun was rising o'er the sea,
And long the level shadows lay,
As if they, too, the beams would be
Of some great, airy argosy,
Framed and launched in a single day.