Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout, — So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at our feet; The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sate that night; The noise of bells went sweeping by ; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church-tower red and high, A lurid mark and dread to see; And awesome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang "Enderby." They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I, my sonne was at my side. And yet the ruddy beacon glowed: And yet he moaned beneath his breath, And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare! The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear, That flow strewed wrecks about the grass; To manye more than myne and me: I shall never hear her more From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Stand beside the sobbing river, Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head DEAD IN THE SIERRAS. JOAQUIN MILLER. His footprints have failed us: And madroñas are rankest The hunter is dead. The grizzly may pass By his half-open door; BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill: But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. THE PASSAGE. JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND. TRANSLATED BY Miss Austen, MANY a year is in its grave Then, in this same boat, beside, One on earth in science wrought, |