Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, J. R. LOWELL. HER EPITAPH. Her Epitaph. THE "Not here! not here!" to every mourner's heart The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier; And when the tomb-door opened, with a start We heard it echoed from within, "Not here!" Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst hither pass, Should spring come earlier to this hallowed grass, Know that her spirit to her body lent Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness can; That even her dust, and this her monument, Have yet a spell to stay one lonely man, Lonely through life, but looking for the day T. W. PARSONS. APART. Apart. T sea are tossing ships; AT On shore are dreaming shells, And the waiting heart and the loving lips, Blossoms and bridal bells. At sea are sails a-gleam; On shore are longing eyes, Of ships that sail the skies. At sea are masts that rise Like spectres from the deep; On shore are the ghosts of drowning cries That cross the waves of sleep. At sea are wrecks a-strand; On shore are shells that moan, Old anchors buried in barren sand, Sea-mist and dreams alone. J. J. PIATT. I The Discoverer. HAVE a little kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is he Greater than Drake or Frobisher, Than all their peers together! He is a brave discoverer, And, far beyond the tether Of them who seek the frozen Pole, A winged pilot steered his bark Suddenly, in his fair young hour, "Henceforth thou art a rover! Thou must make a voyage far, |