Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/515

1S50-G0.] CELIA M. BURR. 499 To waft me proudly to that sunny land Where all the castles of my dreamuig stand. " Day after day I watch the ships go by ; And strain my eyes across the purphng deep, Where dimly pictured 'gainst the summer sky The hills of morning in their beauty sleep. But look ! even now across the shining sea. The ship of promise bearing down for me." n. " Silent mourner, on the wreck -strewn shore, When the angels of thy infancy Ask if homeward turn thy steps once more, What, I pray thee, shall my answer be? 'Tell us! tell us,' they will say, 'Oh year! Draws the loved one unto us more near?'" " Leave me ! leave me ! all is lost, is lost ! My goodly ship is crumbled in the deep, My trusted helmsman in the breakers tossed ; All's wrecked ! all's wasted, even the power to weep. The mocking waves toss scornfully ashore The ruined treasures that are mine no more. " Leave me alone to pore upon the waves, Whitened with upturned faces of the dead; Earth for such corpses has, alas ! no graves ; No holy priest has reqidescat ! said. There's nothing left me but the bitter sea, God and his angels have forgotten me." " Earnest worker, in the fire-light dreaming, What the message I shall bear from thee To the angels whose soft eyes are beaming From the portal where they watch for me? ' Is she coming ? ' they will say, ' Oh year ! Draw her footsteps to the home-land " This the message — that I sit no more With eyes bent idly on the hills of morn, That in the tempest on the wreck-strewn shore, A holier purpose to my soul was bom. ' Give leave to labor ' — was the prayer I said, Leaving the dead past to inter its dead. k "And it was granted — by my hearth to- night,— Tell the beloved ones, — I sit alone But not unhappy ; for the morning light Will show my pathway with its uses strown. Happy in labor — say to them. Oh, year I I wait the Sabbath which I trust draws THE SNOW. Peacefullt, dreamily, slowly, It comes through the halls of the air, And falls to the earth like a spirit That kneels in its beauty at prayer. 'Mid the sere leaves she layeth her fore- head. While the forests are murmuring low, And telling the beads she has brought them — The beautiful spirit, the Snow.