Part 9 (2/2)

It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, ”Why, here,” cried he, ”the thing of things In shape, material, and dimensions!

Give it but strings, and lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!”

So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, The sh.e.l.l disdained, a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered.

O empty world that round us lies, Dead sh.e.l.l, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, In thee what songs should waken!

JOHN BURROUGHS AMERICA, 1837-

WAITING[1]

Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day, The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray, Or change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own, and draw The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor s.p.a.ce, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me.

[Footnote 1: Used by courteous permission of the publishers, Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., Boston.]

JOAQUIN MILLER AMERICA, 1841-

COLUMBUS

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind him the gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of sh.o.r.es, Before him only sh.o.r.eless seas.

The good mate said: ”Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone.

Brave Admiral, speak; what shall I say?”

”Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'”

”My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak,”

The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.

”What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”

”Why, you shall say, at break of day, 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'”

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