THE BURIED SHIP. 331
The busy man lies down
To think.
His reverie Is strongly vocal soon,
The face, off guard, grows sad, Spite of the trumpet tune.
And grandma, dear old soul !
Asleep in easy-chair, Denies it when the lads
Laugh at her stony stare, Her dear old nodding head,
And hands that will unlock, Till knitting-needles fall
From the unfinished sock.
��THE BURIED SHIP.
wild winter wind and the restless wave 1 Have upraised a wreck from its ocean grave. Down at Aquebogue fishers used to show Where the Mars went down fifty years ago. Twas a trading brig from a tropic shore That sank from sight to the ocean floor, By the sexton, sand, buried well and deep Till the winter storm called her up from sleep.
Like a ghost she came. Seaward-looking eyes Saw an outline new on the sea and skies ; Watching fisher-folks, half afraid, drew near, Till they saw her decks through the water clear.
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