A SONG.
A song makes merry music ’mid the hills,
Like laughing rills.
On heaven’s bright sea its echo lingers long,
Love is a song.
A quenchless melody given to inspire
The fainting heart with bold, ambitious fire;
Springing from out the life,
As pain is born of strife.
A sweet conception of the joy to be,
Delightful, free.
Gladly our lips take up the winsome strain
And make the meaning of its birthright plain.
THE MISSING SHIP.
Any news yet of the missing ship?
Any news yet? we say;
A household word on every lip,
The name of that ship to-day:
The name of the ship who left her dock
In the blush of the early morn,
Has she struck, unknown, on some cruel rock
With never a voice to warn?
Any news yet of the missing ship?
Any news yet? we cry;
We speak her name with a trembling lip,
To her aid we fain would fly.
Adrift at mercy of wind and wave;
Storm spent on a desolate shore:—
May there be one guardian hand to save,
’Mid the billows rush and roar.
Any news yet of the missing ship?
Any news yet? we sigh;
We speak her name with a timid lip,
And pray for a kind reply.
For life and death in a moment blend,
Who ever the captain may be;
We never can tell how a trip will end,
When a ship puts out to sea.