No morrow will shine on that pallid brow,
For the spirit hath ta'en its leave.

* * * * *

The ship heaves to, and the funeral rite,
O'er the lovely form is said,
And the rough man's cheek with tears is bright,
As he lowers the gentle dead.

The corse sinks down, alone--alone,
To its dark and dreary grave,
And the soul on a lightened wing hath flown,
To the world beyond the wave.

* * * * *

'Tis a fearful thing in the sea to sleep
Alone in a silent bed--
'Tis a fearful thing on the shoreless deep
Of the spirit-world to tread!




The Dream of Youth.


[Illustration: The Dream of Youth]