THE BOAT OF MYSTERY.

Yester-eve, when all things slept—

Scarce a breeze to stir the lane—

I a restless vigil kept,

Nor from pillows sleep could gain,

Nor from poppies nor—most sure

Of opiates—a conscience pure.

Thoughts of rest I 'gan forswear,

Rose and walked along the strand,

Found, in warm and moonlit air,

Man and boat upon the sand,

Drowsy both, and drowsily

Did the boat put out to sea.

Passed an hour or two perchance,

Or a year? then thought and sense

Vanished in the engulfing trance

Of a vast Indifference.

Fathomless, abysses dread

Opened—then the vision fled.

Morning came: becalmed, the boat

Rested on the purple flood:

"What had happened?" every throat

Shrieked the question: "was there—Blood?"

Naught had happened! On the swell

We had slumbered, oh, so well!

Oh marvel! there he flies

Cleaving the sky with wings unmoved—what force

Impels him, bids him rise,

What curb restrains him? Where's his goal, his course?

Like stars and time eterne

He liveth now in heights that life forswore,

Nor envy's self doth spurn:

A lofty flight were't, e'en to see him soar!

Oh albatross, great bird,

Speeding me upward ever through the blue!

I thought of her, was stirred

To tears unending—yea, I love her true!