So toward the open main, Bore I the maiden. "Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. "There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another! "Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Oh, death was grateful! "Thus, seam'd with many scars, My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. A LITTLE STORY. ALONE, unwedded, past her prime, As if some secret, sweet and dear, She knew, and brooded on the while- Ah me, you could not guess the dream To make her wintry life-blood start Long years ago she loved, and then Who knows?-he died, or proved untrue, And so she lived a maiden still. He never wed who rode to woo Through soft spring mornings long ago, And Time had blurred her ancient woe. But when the day was sunk in night, Feigned that she had her heart's desire. 'T was then that on her withered breast A little dream-child took its rest. How sweet to raise a quavering voice, To feel its head against her neck, And softly soothe its noiseless cry! It made her life so bright and glad— That little child she might have had! Her heart was full of motherhood; Its yearnings all had been denied. She fed its hunger with a dream, And smiled when others might have sighed ; And in the little dream-child's face A likeness vague she loved to trace. Nay, do not smile: our dreams are coarse,Of gold or fame we could not win, Hers was divine; I love to think Of that bent figure, worn and thin, By flickering firelight, wholly blest, Holding her dream-child on her breast. I think in wondrous Heaven, where The good God makes our hopes come true, He may give back my love to me, He may give back your youth to you. But for that maiden undefiled I know he has a little child. ANNE REEVE ALDRICH. THE TEMPEST. WE were crowded in the cabin, It was midnight on the waters 'Tis a fearful thing in Winter So we shuddered there in silence,— As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand : "Isn't God upon the ocean Just the same as on the land?" Then we kissed the little maiden, When the morn was shining clear. JAMES T. FIELDS. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, The skipper he stood beside the helm, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow Then up and spake an old Sailor, Had sailed to the Spanish Main : "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. Last night, the moon had a golden ring, |