They stood together on the beach,

They two alone,

And louder waxed his urgent speech,

His patience almost gone:

"O say but one kind word to me,

Jessie, Jessie Cameron.”—
"I'd be too proud to beg," quoth she,
And pride was in her tone.
And pride was in her lifted head

And in her angry eye,

And in her foot which might have fled,
But would not fly.

Some say that he had gypsy blood,
That in his heart was guile :

Yet he had gone through fire and flood
Only to win her smile.

Some say his grandam was a witch,

A black witch from beyond the Nile,

Who kept an image in a niche

And talked with it the while.

And by her hut far down the lane

Some say they would not pass at night, Lest they should hear an unked strain Or see an unked sight.

Alas for Jessie Cameron !—

The sea crept moaning, moaning nigher: She should have hastened to be gone,— The sea swept higher, breaking by her: She should have hastened to her home While yet the west was flushed with fire, But now her feet are in the foam,

The sea-foam sweeping higher.

O mother, linger at your door,

And light your lamp to make it plain! But Jessie, she comes home no more,

No more again.

'They stood together on the strand,
They only, each by each;

Home, her home, was close at hand,
Utterly out of reach.

Her mother in the chimney nook

Heard a startled sea-gull screech, But never turned her head to look Towards the darkening beach: Neighbors here and neighbors there Heard one scream, as if a bird Shrilly screaming cleft the air :That was all they heard.

Jessie, she comes home no more,

Comes home never;

Her lover's step sounds at his door

No more forever.

And boats may search upon the sea

And search along the river,

But none know where the bodies be:
Sea winds that shiver,

Sea-birds that breast the blast,

Sea-waves swelling,

Keep the secret first and last

Of their dwelling.

Whether the tide so hemmed them round

With its pitiless flow,

That when they would have gone they found

No way to go;

Whether she scorned him to the last
With words flung to and fro,

Or clung to him when hope was past,
None will ever know:

Whether he helped or hindered her,

Threw up his life, or lost it well, The troubled sea, for all its stir, Finds no voice to tell.

Only watchers by the dying

Have thought they heard one pray Wordless, urgent; and replying,

One seem to say him nay:

And watchers by the dead have heard
A windy swell from miles away,
With sobs and screams, but not a word

Distinct for them to say:

And watchers out at sea have caught

Glimpse of a pale gleam here or there, Come and gone as quick as thought,

Which might be hand or hair.

McSavage

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Beside the ocean, wandering on the shore,
I seek no measure of the infinite sea;
Beneath the solemn stars that speak to me

I may not care to reason out their lore;

Among the mountains, whose bright summits o'er

The flush of morning brightens, there may be
Only a sense of might and mystery;
And yet, a thrill of infinite life they pour
Through all my being, and uplift me high

Above my little self and weary days.
So in thy presence, Emerson, I hear
A sea-voice sounding 'neath a boundless sky,

While mountainous thoughts tower o'er life's common ways,

And in thy sky the stars of truth appear.

Clarinet P. Spofford

A FOUR-O'CLOCK.

Ah, happy day, refuse to go!
Hang in the heavens forever so!
Forever in mid-afternoon,

Ah, happy day of happy June!
Pour out thy sunshine on the hill,
The piny wood with perfume fill,
And breathe across the singing sea
Land-scented breezes, that shall be
Sweet as the gardens that they pass,
Where children tumble in the grass!

Ah, happy day, refuse to go!
Hang in the heavens forever so!
And long not for thy blushing rest
In the soft bosom of the west,
But bid gray evening get her back
With all the stars upon her track!
Forget the dark, forget the dew,
The mystery of the midnight blue,
And only spread thy wide warm wings
While summer her enchantment flings!