Surely, surely thou canst hear me
In thy quiet room!

Unto shore, and sky, and silence,
Low I pour my song.
All the spell, the summer sweetness,--
These to thee belong.

Thou art love, the trance and rapture
Of the midnight clear!
Sweet, tho' world on world withhold thee,
I can clasp thee here.



OFF PELORUS.


Crimson swims the sunset over far Pelorus;
Burning crimson tops its frowning crest of pine.
Purple sleeps the shore and floats the wave before us,
Eachwhere from the oar-stroke eddying warm like wine.

Soundless foams the creamy violet wake behind us;
We but see the creaking of the labored oar;
We have stopped our ears,--mad were we not to blind us,
Lest our eyes behold our Ithaca no more.

See the purple splendor o'er the island streaming,
O'er the prostrate sails and equal-sided ship!