At morn a ship will cleave the deep,
And one alone will be borne away,
And one will clasp thee close, and pray;
Oh Little Nell,
Never, never beneath the sun,
Will you dream what you this night have done,
Done so well,
Little Nell.



THE FISHER'S WIFE.


A long, low waste of yellow sand
Lay shining northward far as eye could reach,
Southward a rocky bluff rose high
Broken in wild, fantastic shapes.
Near by, one jagged rock towered high,
And o'er the waters leaned, like giant grim,
Striving to peer into the mysteries
The ocean whispers of continually,
And covers with her soft, treacherous face.
For the rest, the sun was sinking low
Like a great golden globe, into the sea;
Above the rock a bird was flying
In dizzy circles, with shrill cries,
And on a plank floated from some wreck,
With shreds of musty seaweed
Clinging to it yet, a woman sat