Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering tall,
Great as a town adrift come shining on
With sharp spires, gemlike as the mystical
Clear city of Saint John.

Still the old tale; but they are children yet;
O let their mothers have them while they may!
Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fret
That mars both toil and play.

The sea will claim its own; and some shall mourn;
They also, they, but yet will surely go;
So surely as the planet to its bourne,
The chamois to his snow.

'Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed;
We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell.'
'Mother, dear mother--' 'Nay, 't is all decreed.
Dear hearts, farewell, farewell!'




DORA.


A waxing moon that, crescent yet,
In all its silver beauty set,
And rose no more in the lonesome night