'Twas the coming on of twilight,
As we stood abaft the skylight,
Scampering round to please the baby,
(Old Bill Benson held him, maybe,)
When the youngster stretched his fingers
Towards the spot where sunset lingers,
And with strong and sudden motion
Leaped into the weltering ocean!
"What did Don do?" Can't you guess, sir?
He sprang also—by express, sir;
Seized the infant's little dress, sir,
Held the baby's head up boldly
From the waves that rushed so coldly;
And in just about a minute
Our boat had them safe within it.
Sell him! Would you sell your brother?
Don and I love one another.
J. T. Fields.
GEIST'S GRAVE.
Four years!—and didst thou stay above
The ground, which hides thee now, but four?
And all that life, and all that love,
Were crowded, Geist! into no more?
Only four years those winning ways,
Which make me for thy presence yearn,
Called us to pet thee or to praise,
Dear little friend! at every turn?
That loving heart, that patient soul,
Had they indeed no longer span,
To run their course, and reach their goal,
And read their homily to man?
That liquid, melancholy eye,
From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs
Seemed surging the Virgilian cry.[1]
The sense of tears in mortal things—