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,

The pebbles harshly grating on the beach.

So now I curse; and smile to think my oath

As useless as the Ave, - folly both, -

For many wrecks lie in this grewsome place,

And flaunt their rotten ribs before my face,

And some bore faith, and some bore hope, and some

(Like this particularly battered one

Which shows half hid in sand that cross of plank)

Bore human souls. Why this last convoy sank

Is yet a point discussed. Perhaps 't was fate;

Perhaps, the uncommon lightness of their freight!

See those poor shipwrecked fools, who weakly try

To tinker up their poor old ship, and cry,

To work! and wisely scheme and gravely aim

To cross Time's boundless ocean in a frame

Of patched-up planks and man's contrivance, while

The rising waters undermine their toil,

The tempest fillips in their eyes the sand,

And bleach their brothers' bones upon the strand.

For who Eternity's great sea would dare,

Must plunge in boldly, for no boat is there.

What boots it all - What, ho! there, have you drink?

Come, let us gayly revel on the brink!

S.