UNKNOWN. eyes, 335 That here once looked on glowing skies, And the widow's sob and the orphan's | Now changed the scene and changed the wail jarred through the joyous air; How could the light wind o'er the sea, blow on so fresh and fair? How could the gay waves laugh and leap, landward o'er sand and stone, While he, who knew and loved them all lay lapped in clay alone? But for long, when to the beetling heights A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they JOHN C. FREMONT. These riven trees, this wind-swept plain The rocks rise black from storm-packed Backward, amidst the twilight glow Where still some grand peaks mark the way ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUN-Touched by the light of parting day And memory's sun. But here thick clouds the mountains hide, Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way; The lichen had a lovelier red, The elder-flower a fairer gray. And there was silence on the land, The beeches sighed through all their boughs; The gusty pennons of the pine One gable, full against the sun, From all its honeysuckled breath. Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke, The windmill shook its slanted arms, Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees, From fields which promised tented sheaves; Till the day waxed into excess, And on the misty, rounding gray, One vast, fantastic wilderness, The glowing roofs of London lay. UNKNOWN. THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS. THE sea is calling, calling. The boys and girls with their merry din, The sea is calling, calling, Along the hollow shore. I know each nook in the rocky strand, And the worn old cliff where the seapinks cling, And the winding caves where the echoes ring. I shall wake them nevermore. I saw the "sea-dog" over the height, And the cottage creaks and rocks, wellnigh, As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by, In the moan of the rising gale. Yet it is calling, calling. To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark, Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark; While the foam flies thick on the bitter blast, And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, Where the black buoy marks the bay. Do you hear it calling, calling? And the rudder chafed my hold. Will it never stop calling, calling? Come near then, give me a hand to touch, You hear it calling, calling? But, then, it is calling, calling, Now Well, fetch the parson, find the book, And the crimson weeds on the golden sand, | It is up on the shelf there if you look; |