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With bays of marsh, and capes of bush and tree,

The wood's black shore-line loomed
beyond the meadowy sea.
"One song,

The lady rose to leave.
Or hymn," they urged, "before
we part."

And she, with lips to which belong
Sweet intuitions of all art,

Gave to the winds of night a strain
Which they who heard would hear
again;

And to her voice the solemn ocean lent, Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment.

The harp at Nature's advent strung
Has never ceased to play;
The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.

And prayer is made, and praise is given,
By all things near and far:
The ocean looketh up to heaven,
And mirrors every star.

Its waves are kneeling on the strand,
As kneels the human knee,

Their white locks bowing to the sand, The priesthood of the sea!

They pour their glittering treasures forth,

Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends her incense up From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewy cup

She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills
Rise white as wings of prayer;

The altar-curtains of the hills
Are sunset's purple air.

The winds with hymns of praise are loud,

Or low with sobs of pain,The thunder-organ of the cloud, The dropping tears of rain.

"Behind us are the Moormen ;
At sea we sink or strand:
There's death upon the water,
There's death upon the land!”

Then up spake John de Matha:
"God's errands never fail !
Take thou the mantle which I wear,
And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle,

The blue, the white, the red;
And straight before the wind off-shore
The ship of Freedom sped.

"God help us!" cried the seamen,
"For vain is mortal skill:
The good ship on a stormy sea
Is drifting at its will."

Then up spake John de Matha:

"My mariners, never fear!

The Lord whose breath has filled her sail

May well our vessel steer!”

So on through storm and darkness
They drove for weary hours;
And lo! the third gray morning shone
On Ostia's friendly towers.

And on the walls the watchers

The ship of mercy knew,
They knew far off its holy cross,
The red, the white, and blue.

And the bells in all the steeples
Rang out in glad accord,

To welcome home to Christian soil
The ransomed of the Lord.

So runs the ancient legend

By bard and painter told; And lo! the cycle rounds again, The new is as the old!

With rudder foully broken,

And sails by traitors torn, Dur country on a midnight sea Is waiting for the morn.

Before her, nameless terror; Behind, the pirate foe;

The clouds are black above her, The sea is white below.

The hope of all who suffer,
The dread of all who wrong,
She drifts in darkness and in storm,
How long, O Lord! how long?

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But courage, O my mariners!
Ye shall not suffer wreck,
While up to God the freedman's prayers
Are rising from your deck.

Is not your sail the banner
Which God hath blest anew,
The mantle that De Matha wore,
The red, the white, the blue?

Its hues are all of heaven,

The red of sunset's dye,

The whiteness of the moon-lit cloud,
The blue of morning's sky.

Wait cheerily, then, O mariners,
For daylight and for land;
The breath of God is in your sail,
Your rudder is His hand.

Sail on, sail on, deep-freighted
With blessings and with hopes;
The saints of old with shadowy hands
Are pulling at your ropes.

Behind ye holy martyrs

Uplift the palm and crown; Before ye unborn ages send

Their benedictions down.

Take heart from John de Matha!-
God's errands never fail!
Sweep on through storm and darkness,
The thunder and the hail!

Sail on! The morning cometh,
The port ye yet shall win;
And all the bells of God shall ring
The good ship bravely in !

WHAT THE BIRDS SAID.

THE birds against the April wind

Flew northward, singing as they flew;