ON THE COAST.

A lonely strip of coast where golden sands

Stretch dreamily into the far-off blue;

A drowsy wind, the breath of southern lands,

And seas of opal hue.

A glorious, wide expanse of heaven o’erhead,

Whose tender blue is flecked with clouds of light;

A fleet of boats, with dusky sails outspread,

Fast dropping out of sight.

Tall, beetling cliffs that purple shadows throw

Athwart still pools where ocean treasures hide;

Low undertones—which ever clearer grow—

From the in-coming tide.

A perfect peace! Here never comes the strife

That ever waits upon the race for gold;

Here in still grooves goes on the march of life,

With simple joys untold.

Here sweet desire would have me always stay—

Far from the city’s toil, its passions strong—

And in contentment live through life’s brief day,

Unto its evensong.

But Duty, ever jealous, cries ‘Not yet!

Thy place is still upon the busy mart;

Thou must go forth, and earn with labour’s sweat,

The wishes of thy heart.’

And so, at Duty’s call, do I depart,

And leave these joys regretfully behind;

But as a vision bright, within my heart,

Their beauty is enshrined.

Charles H. Barstow.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See also the article on ‘[Quarantine]’ in the present sheet.