VIII

And many a careless, happy child

All full of joyous glee

While gazing on the billows wild,

Of the angry, boiling sea,

IX

Will know full soon, the one so brave,

So loving, tender, true,

Whom mother prays her God to save,

Is lost with all his crew.

X

And many a gentle wife, just now,

Who's watching, hoping on,

Will something learn that shades her brow, And makes her cheek grow wan.

ΧΙ

And all along the yellow strand,

And near the rocks,' I ween,

There's many a ship fast in the sand,

And many a wreck is seen.

XII

For, oh, the Storm so cruel, cold,

Ne'er cares what hearts it breaks; What lives it spoils remains untold; What misery it makes.

MATERNAL DEVOTION

PART I

I

SWEET memories rise unchidden in my breast
Of thee, my darling: in Love's warmest nest
Securely art thou hid. When thou art here
I cannot sing, nor tell what makes thee dear:
When thou art gone my bursting heart would move
In tend'rest measures of exalted love.

II

Communion close, and sympathy of thought

Brought us more near than Kindred could; we

sought

Ambitions high and true. The noblest aims
Erstwhile didst fill thy soul, and all the names
Of men in bygone days, who won their state
Of honour, thy models were to imitate.

III

Thou art not only son, but brother-friend;
The three all merged in one, and in these blend
Love, sympathy, and trust; a triple cord
To firmly bind us twain. Unframed the word;
Unknown the thought to analyse this chain
Subtle-unseen. Who can its depths obtain ?

IV

'Tis mighty, mystic Love that draws us nigh,
That sacred link; that everlasting tie!
Ocean may rear between its broad deep wall :
The widest earth divide us far, yet all
Is naught to us. The world may pass away,
And all things fail, but Love is bound to stay.

MATERNAL DEVOTION

PART II

I

MUSING and dreaming, here sit I alone,

Thinking of moments that long since have flown: March winds are tumbling, and rumbling; and

rush

On their wild course, as if trying to crush

All that opposeth them; conquerors free

In their mad flight they now strive hard to be.

II

Out of the Calendar, who would not own,
Insolent Ides, that he wishes thee gone?
None love thy boisterous, roughly-hewn face;
Nothing that's tender therein can we trace;
Season more balmy, delicious I'd sight
If I could rule the ethereal height.