THE CLOSING SCENE.

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl,
Float in upon the mist;

The waves are broken precious stones-
Sapphire and amethyst,

Washed from celestial basement walls
By suns unsetting kissed.

Out through the utmost gates of space,
Past where the gay stars drift,
To the widening Infinite, my soul
Glides on a vessel swift;

Yet loses not her anchorage
In yonder azure rift.

Here sit I, as a little child:

The threshold of God's door
Is that clear band of chrysoprase ;
Now the vast temple floor,
The blinding glory of the dome
I bow my head before:
The universe, O God, is home,
In height or depth to me;
Yet here upon thy footstool green
Content am I to be;

Glad when is opened to my need

Some sea-like glimpse of thee.

LUCY LARCOM.

The Closing Scene.

WITHIN his sober realm of leafless trees

The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; Like some tanned reaper in his hours of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

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The gray barns looking from their hazy hills
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed farther and the stream sang low, As in a dream the distant woodman hewed

His winter log with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight;
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint;
And, like a star slow drowning in the light,

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint.

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew-
Crew thrice-and all was stiller than before;
Silent, till some replying warder blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest
Made garrulous trouble 'round her unfledged young;
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
By every light wind like a censer swung;

Where sung the noisy masons of the eaves,
The busy swallows, circling ever near-
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest and a plenteous year;

Where every bird that charmed the vernal feast

Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,

To warn the reaper of the rosy east ;-
All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn

THE CLOSING SCENE.

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail;

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And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,

Made echo to the distant cottage loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistledown, the only ghost of flowers,

Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air,

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there, Firing the floor with his inverted torch;

Amid all this-the centre of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known sorrow,--he had walked with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust;
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And twice War bowed to her his sable plume-
Re-gave the sword to rest upon her wall.

Re-gave the sword, but not the hand that drew
And struck for Liberty its dying blow;

Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped-her head was bowed; Light drooped the distaff through her hand serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

I

Ships at Sea.

HAVE ships that went to sea,
More than fifty years ago;

None have yet come home to me,
But are sailing to and fro.

I have seen them in my sleep,
Plunging through the shoreless deep,
With tattered sails and battered hulls,
While around them screamed the gulls,
Flying low, flying low.

I have wondered why they strayed
From me, sailing round the world;
And I've said, "I'm half afraid

That their sails will ne'er be furled.”
Great the treasures that they hold,
Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold;
While the spices that they bear,

Fill with fragrance all the air,
As they sail, as they sail.

Ah! each sailor in the port

Knows that I have ships at sea,
Of the waves and winds the sport,
And the sailors pity me.
Oft they come and with me walk,
Cheering me with hopeful talk,
Till I put my fears aside,
And, contented, watch the tide

Rise and fall, rise and falı.

SHIPS AT SEA.

I have waited on the piers,

Gazing for them down the bay, Days and nights for many years, Till I turned heart-sick away. But the pilots, when they land, Stop and take me by the hand, Saying, "You will live to see Your proud vessels come from sea, One and all, one and all."

So I never quite despair,

Nor let hope or courage fail;
And some day, when skies are fair,
Up the bay my ships will sail.
I shall buy then all I need,—
Prints to look at, books to read,
Horses, wines, and works of art,
Everything-except a heart,

That is lost, that is lost.

Once, when I was pure and young,
Richer, too, than I am now,
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung,

Or a wrinkle creased my brow,

There was one whose heart was mine;
But she's something now divine,
And though come my ships from sea,

They can bring no heart to me

Evermore, evermore.

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ROBERT B. COFFIN.