A. D. 1875.

METHINKS I am upon a barren shore

Where there are rocks and spume and bitter weeds,

And grimly silent reefs; the shifting sand,

Though seeming firm, is swaying to the waves

That, hoarsely pulsing, surge upon the beach


And, baffled, feign with seething hiss to yield,

The while, pervading deep, they turn the sand

To their dread purpose. Hither I have come

Across a varied plain that stretches back

Till dimly lost in light; but bright-eyed Hope

Has slowly vanished in the quicksand dread,

And left me here alone. My tearful prayer

Is answered by the petrel's mournful cry,

The scud of spray, the hoarse-voiced waves that move

In mockery the shudder of the sand,