Swings round the purple peaks remote: Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, The gray smoke stands Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. *By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co. I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Under the walls Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky. The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies,― The World of Waters The World of O'erveiled with vines She glows and shines. Among her future oil and wines. Her children, hid The cliff's amid, Are gambolling with the gambolling kid, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships. Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun. O happy ship, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip! O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings arew! No more, no more The worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar: With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise! THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Tacking Ship Off Shore* The weather-leech of the topsail shivers, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, Open one point on the weather-bow, Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head. I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye 66 The ship bends lower before the breeze, As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; *By courtesy of The Churchman. The World of Waters The And she swifter springs to the rising scas, World of As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!" Waters It is silence all, as each in his place, With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, And the light on Fire Island Head draws near, No time to spare! It is touch and go; And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!" As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, And the headland white we have left behind. The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; |