WHEN THE TIDE COMES IN.

HEN the tide comes in,

WH

At once the shore and sea begin

Together to be glad.

What the tide has brought

No man has asked, no man has sought:

What other tides have had

The deep sand hides away;

The last bit of the wrecks they wrought
Was burned up yesterday.

When the tide goes out,

The shore looks dark and sad with doubt.

The landmarks are all lost.

For the tide to turn

Men patient wait, men restless yearn.
Sweet channels they have crossed,
In boats that rocked with glee,
Stretch now bare stony roads that burn
And lead away from sea.

When the tide comes in

In hearts, at once the hearts begin

Together to be glad.

What the tide has brought

They do not care, they have not sought.

All joy they ever had

The new joy multiplies;

All pain by which it may be bought

Seems paltry sacrifice.

MY BARNACLES.

When the tide goes out,

The hearts are wrung with fear and doubt :
All trace of joy seems lost.

Will the tide return?

In restless questioning they yearn
With hands unclasped, uncrossed,

They weep, on separate ways.
Ah! darling, shall we ever learn
Love's tidal hours and days?

65

H. H.

MY BARNACLES.

NOT those whose life is hid with God

In the unfathomed sea;

Not those which gleam so milky white
Under my dory's lee,

As o'er her side I softly lean,

And watch the life below,

The strange fair things which there abide,
And those which come and go.

Nor call I mine the crowds that cling
To many a venturous keel,-
A mimic world, whose tiny folk
Through ocean spaces steal.

Mine are the little creatures left
By the retreating sea,
Who long for it to come again,
So masterful and free.

It goes the hot sun scorches them,
And lovers' careless feet

Tread them to death, as if no life
But theirs were passing sweet.

It comes it wooes, it kisses them;
It drenches them with love;
It is a presence everywhere,-
Around, beneath, above.

And these are mine by lover's right;
And, when the tide is low,

Down to its edge with scooping hands
Or cup of shell I go,

And dip the briny waters up,

And bear them back to give

To these wee things that long for them As dying men to live.

How eagerly their shells dispart

To take the moisture in!

And do I hear a tiny laugh,

The faintest, merriest din?

What think they of the sudden draught?
That 'tis the coming sea?

A little wave sent on before
The mighty company?

And when they know it is not that
Do they reproach the hand.
Which brings the broken promise up

From the wave-beaten strand?

THE LIGHTHOUSE.

Believe it not they know the step
Of the advancing sea,

Better than maidens know the feet
That come so stealthily.

They take, with thanks, the human help,
And still with patience wait

For the vast love to come and fill
The void it doth create.

So wait our souls on Thee, O God!
Their longing is from Thee :
All human help must ever hint
At Thy sufficiency.

Come as the ocean comes to give

Its energy divine;

Fold us in Thy encircling arms,

And make us wholly Thine.

67

J. W. Chadwick.

THE LIGHTHOUSE.

TEADFAST, serene, immovable, the same

STEADFA

Year after year, through all the silent night Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame, Shines on that inextinguishable light!

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, And hold it up and shake it like a fleece.

The startled waves leap over it; the storm
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,
And steadily against its solid form

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din
Of wings, and winds, and solitary cries,
Blinded and maddened by the light within,

Dashes himself against the glare and dies.

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
But hails the mariner with words of love.

"Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships!
And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,
Be yours to bring man nearer unto man.”
H. W. Longfellow.

"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK."

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

Oh, well for the fisherman's boy

That he shouts with his sister at play!