And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"

STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic church-yard,
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for

ever,

Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their

labors,

Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its
branches

Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy;
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of
homespun,

And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story,

While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring

ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE.

1850.

DEDICATION.

As one who, walking in the twilight gloom,
Hears round about him voices as it darkens,
And seeing not the forms from which they come,
Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens;

So walking here in twilight, O my friends!

I hear your voices, softened by the distance, And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance.

If any thought of mine, or sung or told,
Has ever given delight or consolation,
Ye have repaid me back a thousand fold,
By every friendly sign and salutation.

Thanks for the sympathies that ye

have shown!

Thanks for each kindly word, each silent, token, That teaches me, when seeming most alone, Friends are around us, though no word be spoken.

Kind messages, that pass from land to land;

Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the pressure of a hand,

One touch of fire,· and all the rest is mystery! Longfellow. I.

22

The pleasant books, that silently among

Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue

Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces!

Perhaps on earth I never shall behold,

With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance; Therefore to me ye never will grow old,

But live for ever young in my remembrance.

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away!
Your gentle voices will flow on for ever,
When life grows bare and tarnished with decay,
As through a leafless landscape flows a river.

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends,
Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations,
But the endeavour for the selfsame ends,

With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk,

Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion; Not interrupting with intrusive talk

The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean.

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest,

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, To have my place reserved among the rest, Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited!

BY THE SEASIDE.

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP.

"BUILD me straight, O worthy Master! Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster,

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"

The merchant's word

Delighted the Master heard;

For his heart was in his work, and the heart
Giveth grace unto every Art.

A quiet smile played round his lips, 10 As the eddies and dimples of the tide Play round the bows of ships,

That steadily at anchor ride.

And with a voice that was full of glee,
He answered, "Ere long we will launch
A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch,
As ever weathered a wintry sea!"

And first with nicest skill and art,
Perfect and finished in every part,
A little model the Master wrought,
24 Which should be to the larger plan
What the child is to the man,

Its counterpart in miniature;
That with a hand more swift and sure
The greater labor might be brought

To answer to his inward thought.
And as he labored, his mind ran o'er
The various ships that were built of yore,
And above them all, and strangest of all
Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
30 Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
With bows and stern raised high in air,
And balconies hanging here and there,
And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
And eight round towers, like those that frown
From some old castle, looking down
Upon the drawbridge and the moat.

And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis,
Shall be of another form than this!"

It was of another form, indeed; 40 Built for freight, and yet for speed, A beautiful and gallant craft;

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast,

Pressing down upon sail and mast,

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; Broad in the beam, but sloping aft With graceful curve and slow degrees, That she might be docile to the helm, And that the currents of parted seas, Closing behind, with mighty force, 50 Might aid and not impede her course.

In the ship-yard stood the Master,
With the model of the vessel,
That should laugh at all disaster,
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!

Covering many a rood of ground,
Lay the timber piled around;

Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak,

And scattered here and there, with these,