Give place to the woods and their gloomy shadows.

Our skiff is steered by skilful hands,
Its rowers' arms are strong,
But muscles are not iron bands
To bear such conflict long.
And hearts beat hard, and breath comes fast,
And cheeks too hotly burn,
Before the welcome goal is passed--
The rest two lengths astern.

The evening air is growing chill,
The moon is sinking low:
The race is ours--across the wave
We call, but nothing answers save
The winds that gently blow,
"Come race again." But all in vain--
The silvery voice is still.




_MY TREASURE_.


"What do you gather?" the maiden said,
Shaking her sunlit curls at me--
"See, these flowers I plucked are dead,
Ah! misery."