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Littell's Living Age/Volume 134/Issue 1735/Near Shore


Earth is our little island home,
And Heaven the neighboring continent,
Whence winds to every inlet come,
With balmiest scent.

And tenderest whispers thence we hear
From those who lately sailed across;
They love us still; since Heaven is near,
Death is not loss.

From mountain slopes of breeze and balm,
What melodies arrest the oar;
What memories ripple through the calm!
We'll keep near shore.