ALL day long till the west was red,

Over and under the white-flecked blue:

"Now lay her into the wind," he said; And south the harbor drew.

12

MAKING PORT.

And tacking west and tacking east,
Spray-showers upward going,
Her wake one zigzag trail of yeast,
Her gunwale fairly flowing;

All flutterous clamor overhead,

Lee scuppers white and spouting, Upon the deck a stamping tread, And windy voices shouting;

Her weather shrouds as viol-strings,
And leeward all a-clatter,-

The long, lithe schooner dips and springs;
The waters cleave and scatter.

Shoulder to shoulder, breast to breast,
Arms locked, hand over hand:
Bracing to leeward, lips compressed,
Eyes forward to the land;

Driving the wheel to wind, to lee,
The two men work as one,
Out of the southwest sweeps the sea;
Low slants the summer sun.

The harbor opens wide and wide,
Draws up on either quarter;

The Vineyard's low hills backward slide;
The keel finds smoother water.

MAKING PORT.

And tacking starboard, tacking port, Bows hissing, heeled to leeward, Through craft of many a size and sort, She trails the long bay seaward.

The hurling wind drives at her; The loud sails flap and flutter out, The sheet-blocks rasp and clatter.

A lumberman lies full abeam,

The flow sets squarely toward her; We lose our headway in the stream And drift broadside aboard her.

A sudden flurry fore and aft,

Shout, trample, strain, wind howling; A ponderous jar of craft on craft, A boom that threatens fouling;

Her bowsprit sweeps our quarter. Clang go the sheets; the jib draws full; Once more we cleave the water.

The anchor rattles from the bow,
The jib comes wrapping downward ;
And quiet rides the dripping prow,
Wave-lapped and pointing townward.

Oh, gracious is the arching sky,
The south wind blowing blandly;
The rippling white-caps fleck and fly;
The sunset flushes grandly.

And all the charm of sea and land,
And splendid sunset glow and grace,
And more, I'd give to hold her hand
And look upon her face!

JAMES T. MCKAY.

LOVE.

He stood beside a cottage lone,

And listened to a lute,

One summer eve, when the breeze was gone,

And the nightingale was mute.

The moon was watching on the hill;

The stream was staid, and the maples still,

To hear a lover's suit,

That, half a vow, and half a prayer,

Spoke less of hope than of despair,

And rose into the calm, soft air,

As sweet and low,

As he had heard-O, woe! O, woe!
The flutes of angels, long ago!

"By every hope that earthward clings, By faith that mounts on angel wings,

By dreams that make night-shadows bright,
And truths that turn our day to night,
By childhood's smile, and manhood's tear,
By pleasure's day, and sorrow's year,
By all the strains that fancy sings,
And pangs that time so surely brings,
For joy or grief, for hope or fear,
For all hereafter as for here,

In peace or strife, in storm or shine,
My soul is wedded unto thine!"

And for its soft and sole reply,
A murmur, and a sweet, low sigh,
But not a spoken word;

And yet they made the waters start

Into his eyes who heard,

For they told of a most loving heart,
In a voice like that of a bird;

Of a heart that loved though it loved in vain,
A grieving, and yet not a pain:

A love that took an early root
And had an early doom,

Like trees that never grow to fruit,
And early shed their bloom;
Of vanished hopes and happy smiles,

All lost for evermore,

Like ships that sailed for sunny isles,

But never came to shore !

THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY.