The sparkling juice now pour, SAINT PERAY. With fond and liberal hand; Hurrah! with three times three; Then fill the wine-cup high, From off the wine departs, The precious draught shall find a homeA dwelling in our hearts. ROBERT FOLKESTONE WILLIAMS. SAINT PERAY. ADDRESSED TO H. T. P. WHEN to any saint I pray, It shall be to Saint Peray. He alone, of all the brood, Ever did me any good: Many I have tried that are Humbugs in the calendar. On the Atlantic, faint and sick, Next, in pleasant Normandie, All the ancient kings repose; At the "Golden Fleece," he knows! In my wanderings, vague and various, But I was a fool to try him; In Sicily at least a score- Worn with travel, tired and lame, Never gave me aught—but fleas― But in Provence, near Vaucluse, 191 Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint Gifted with a wondrous juice, Potent for the worst complaint. Though till then I had not heard With such magic into mine, Rest he gave me, and refection— Bright forebodings for the morrow— Now, why should any almanack NIGHT AT SEA. How it turns back with tenderest endeavor To fix the past within the heart of hearts. Absence is full of memory, it teaches The value of all old familiar things; The strengthener of affection, while it reaches O'er the dark parting, with an angel's wings. My friends, my absent friends! 193 Like some new island on the ocean springing, Floats on the surface some gigantic whale, From its vast head a silver fountain flinging, Bright as the fountain in a fairy tale. My friends, my absent friends! I read such fairy legends while with you. Do you think of me, as I think of you? Light is amid the gloomy canvas spreading, The world, with one vast element omitted- How oft on some strange loveliness while gazing, Have I wished for you-beautiful as new, The purple waves like some wild army raising Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through. My friends, my absent friends! Do you think of me, as I think of you? Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning, The moon is whitening the dusky sails, From the thick bank of clouds she masters, shedding The softest influence that o'er night pre vails. Pale is she like a young queen pale with splendor, Haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, too deep; The very glory that she wears is tender, The very eyes that watch her beauty fain would weep. My friends, my absent friends! Do you think of me, as I think of you? Sunshine is ever cheerful, when the morning Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling eyes; Up springs the flying fish like life's false The spirits mount to glad endeavor, scorning joy, What toil upon a path so sunny lies. Which of the sunshine asks that frail adorn- Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their Are creatures, huge, and terrible and The topmast sail, it seems like some dim pin |