TWO VISIONS.
A vision of Morn,—the dew’s on the grass,
The ocean’s aflame, and a sweet fisher-lass
On its bosom’s unrest is afloat;
The sunlight is fair on her shy, upturned face,
As she dips the bright oars with the daintiest grace,
And the prow of her snowy-white boat
Its way urges softly through each foaming crest,