To the charm and felicity of her verse, as far as it goes, nothing can be added; but in the following ballad I have endeavored to give a fuller detail of the touching incident upon which it is founded.
From pain and peril, by land and main, The shipwrecked sailor came back again; And like one from the dead, the threshold cross'd Of his wondering home, that had mourned him lost.
Where he sat once more with his kith and kin, And welcomed his neighbors thronging in.
But when morning came he called for his spade.
"I must pay my debt to the Lord," he said.
"Why dig you here ?" asked the passer-by; "Is there gold or silver the road so nigh ?" "No, friend," he answered: "but under this sod Is the blessed water, the wine of God." "Water! the Powow is at your back, And right before you the Merrimac, "And look you up, or look you down, There 's a well-sweep at every door in town." "True," he said, "we have wells of our own; But this I dig for the Lord alone." Said the other: "This soil is dry, you know.
I doubt if a spring can be found below; "You had better consult, before you dig, Some water-witch, with a hazel twig." "No, wet or dry, I will dig it here, Shallow or deep, if it takes a year.
"In the Arab desert, where shade is none, The waterless land of sand and sun, "Under the pitiless, brazen sky My burning throat as the sand was dry; "My crazed brain listened in fever dreams For plash of buckets and ripple of streams; "And opening my eyes to the blinding glare, And my lips to the breath of the blistering air, "Tortured alike by the heavens and earth, I cursed, like Job, the day of my birth.
"Then something tender, and sad, and mild As a mother's voice to her wandering child, "Rebuked my frenzy; and bowing my head, I prayed as I never before had prayed: "Pity me, God! for I die of thirst; Take me out of this land accurst; "And if ever I reach my home again, Where earth has springs, and the sky has rain, "I will dig a well for the passers-by, And none shall suffer from thirst as I.
"I saw, as I prayed, my home once more, The house, the barn, the elms by the door, "The grass-lined road, that riverward wound, The tall slate stones of the burying-ground, "The belfry and steeple on meeting-house hill, The brook with its dam, and gray grist mill, "And I knew in that vision beyond the sea, The very place where my well must be.
"God heard my prayer in that evil day; He led my feet in their homeward way, "From false mirage and dried-up well, And the hot sand storms of a land of hell, "Till I saw at last through the coast-hill's gap, A city held in its stony lap, "The mosques and the domes of scorched Muscat, And my heart leaped up with joy thereat; "For there was a ship at anchor lying, A Christian flag at its mast-head flying, "And sweetest of sounds to my homesick ear Was my native tongue in the sailor's cheer.
"Now the Lord be thanked, I am back again, Where earth has springs, and the skies have rain, "And the well I promised by Oman's Sea, I am digging for him in Amesbury." His kindred wept, and his neighbors said "The poor old captain is out of his head." But from morn to noon, and from noon to night, He toiled at his task with main and might; And when at last, from the loosened earth, Under his spade the stream gushed forth, And fast as he climbed to his deep well's brim, The water he dug for followed him, He shouted for joy: "I have kept my word, And here is the well I promised the Lord!" The long years came and the long years went, And he sat by his roadside well content; He watched the travellers, heat-oppressed, Pause by the way to drink and rest, And the sweltering horses dip, as they drank, Their nostrils deep in the cool, sweet tank, And grateful at heart, his memory went Back to that waterless Orient, And the blessed answer of prayer, which came To the earth of iron and sky of flame.
And when a wayfarer weary and hot, Kept to the mid road, pausing not For the well's refreshing, he shook his head; "He don't know the value of water," he said; "Had he prayed for a drop, as I have done, In the desert circle of sand and sun, "He would drink and rest, and go home to tell That God's best gift is the wayside well!" AN OUTDOOR RECEPTION.
The substance of these lines, hastily pencilled several years ago, I find among such of my unprinted scraps as have escaped the waste-basket and the fire.

In transcribing it I have made some changes, additions, and omissions.
On these green banks, where falls too soon The shade of Autumn's afternoon, The south wind blowing soft and sweet, The water gliding at nay feet, The distant northern range uplit By the slant sunshine over it, With changes of the mountain mist From tender blush to amethyst, The valley's stretch of shade and gleam Fair as in Mirza's Bagdad dream, With glad young faces smiling near And merry voices in my ear, I sit, methinks, as Hafiz might In Iran's Garden of Delight.
For Persian roses blushing red, Aster and gentian bloom instead; For Shiraz wine, this mountain air; For feast, the blueberries which I share With one who proffers with stained hands Her gleanings from yon pasture lands, Wild fruit that art and culture spoil, The harvest of an untilled soil; And with her one whose tender eyes Reflect the change of April skies, Midway 'twixt child and maiden yet, Fresh as Spring's earliest violet; And one whose look and voice and ways Make where she goes idyllic days; And one whose sweet, still countenance Seems dreamful of a child's romance; And others, welcome as are these, Like and unlike, varieties Of pearls on nature's chaplet strung, And all are fair, for all are young.
Gathered from seaside cities old, From midland prairie, lake, and wold, From the great wheat-fields, which might feed The hunger of a world at need, In healthful change of rest and play Their school-vacations glide away.
No critics these: they only see An old and kindly friend in me, In whose amused, indulgent look Their innocent mirth has no rebuke.
They scarce can know my rugged rhymes, The harsher songs of evil times, Nor graver themes in minor keys Of life's and death's solemnities; But haply, as they bear in mind Some verse of lighter, happier kind,-- Hints of the boyhood of the man, Youth viewed from life's meridian, Half seriously and half in play My pleasant interviewers pay Their visit, with no fell intent Of taking notes and punishment.
As yonder solitary pine Is ringed below with flower and vine, More favored than that lonely tree, The bloom of girlhood circles me.
In such an atmosphere of youth I half forget my age's truth; The shadow of my life's long date Runs backward on the dial-plate, Until it seems a step might span The gulf between the boy and man.
My young friends smile, as if some jay On bleak December's leafless spray Essayed to sing the songs of May.
Well, let them smile, and live to know, When their brown locks are flecked with snow, 'T is tedious to be always sage And pose the dignity of age, While so much of our early lives On memory's playground still survives, And owns, as at the present hour, The spell of youth's magnetic power.
But though I feel, with Solomon, 'T is pleasant to behold the sun, I would not if I could repeat A life which still is good and sweet; I keep in age, as in my prime, A not uncheerful step with time, And, grateful for all blessings sent, I go the common way, content To make no new experiment.
On easy terms with law and fate, For what must be I calmly wait, And trust the path I cannot see,-- That God is good sufficeth me.
And when at last on life's strange play The curtain falls, I only pray That hope may lose itself in truth, And age in Heaven's immortal youth, And all our loves and longing prove The foretaste of diviner love.
The day is done.

Its afterglow Along the west is burning low.
My visitors, like birds, have flown; I hear their voices, fainter grown, And dimly through the dusk I see Their 'kerchiefs wave good-night to me,-- Light hearts of girlhood, knowing nought Of all the cheer their coming brought; And, in their going, unaware Of silent-following feet of prayer Heaven make their budding promise good With flowers of gracious womanhood! R.S.

S., AT DEER ISLAND ON THE MERRIMAC.
Make, for he loved thee well, our Merrimac, From wave and shore a low and long lament For him, whose last look sought thee, as he went The unknown way from which no step comes back.
And ye, O ancient pine-trees, at whose feet He watched in life the sunset's reddening glow, Let the soft south wind through your needles blow A fitting requiem tenderly and sweet! No fonder lover of all lovely things Shall walk where once he walked, no smile more glad Greet friends than his who friends in all men had, Whose pleasant memory, to that Island clings, Where a dear mourner in the home he left Of love's sweet solace cannot be bereft.
BURNING DRIFT-WOOD Before my drift-wood fire I sit, And see, with every waif I burn, Old dreams and fancies coloring it, And folly's unlaid ghosts return.
O ships of mine, whose swift keels cleft The enchanted sea on which they sailed, Are these poor fragments only left Of vain desires and hopes that failed?
Did I not watch from them the light Of sunset on my towers in Spain, And see, far off, uploom in sight The Fortunate Isles I might not gain?
Did sudden lift of fog reveal Arcadia's vales of song and spring, And did I pass, with grazing keel, The rocks whereon the sirens sing?
Have I not drifted hard upon The unmapped regions lost to man, The cloud-pitched tents of Prester John, The palace domes of Kubla Khan?
Did land winds blow from jasmine flowers, Where Youth the ageless Fountain fills?
Did Love make sign from rose blown bowers, And gold from Eldorado's hills?
Alas! the gallant ships, that sailed On blind Adventure's errand sent, Howe'er they laid their courses, failed To reach the haven of Content.
And of my ventures, those alone Which Love had freighted, safely sped, Seeking a good beyond my own, By clear-eyed Duty piloted.
O mariners, hoping still to meet The luck Arabian voyagers met, And find in Bagdad's moonlit street, Haroun al Raschid walking yet, Take with you, on your Sea of Dreams, The fair, fond fancies dear to youth.
I turn from all that only seems, And seek the sober grounds of truth.
What matter that it is not May, That birds have flown, and trees are bare, That darker grows the shortening day, And colder blows the wintry air! The wrecks of passion and desire, The castles I no more rebuild, May fitly feed my drift-wood fire, And warm the hands that age has chilled.
Whatever perished with my ships, I only know the best remains; A song of praise is on my lips For losses which are now my gains.
Heap high my hearth! No worth is lost; No wisdom with the folly dies.
Burn on, poor shreds, your holocaust Shall be my evening sacrifice.
Far more than all I dared to dream, Unsought before my door I see; On wings of fire and steeds of steam The world's great wonders come to me, And holier signs, unmarked before, Of Love to seek and Power to save,-- The righting of the wronged and poor, The man evolving from the slave; And life, no longer chance or fate, Safe in the gracious Fatherhood.
I fold o'er-wearied hands and wait, In full assurance of the good.
And well the waiting time must be, Though brief or long its granted days, If Faith and Hope and Charity Sit by my evening hearth-fire's blaze.
And with them, friends whom Heaven has spared, Whose love my heart has comforted, And, sharing all my joys, has shared My tender memories of the dead,-- Dear souls who left us lonely here, Bound on their last, long voyage, to whom We, day by day, are drawing near, Where every bark has sailing room! I know the solemn monotone Of waters calling unto me I know from whence the airs have blown That whisper of the Eternal Sea.
As low my fires of drift-wood burn, I hear that sea's deep sounds increase, And, fair in sunset light, discern Its mirage-lifted Isles of Peace.
O.W.HOLMES ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTH-DAY.
Climbing a path which leads back never more We heard behind his footsteps and his cheer; Now, face to face, we greet him standing here Upon the lonely summit of Fourscore Welcome to us, o'er whom the lengthened day Is closing and the shadows colder grow, His genial presence, like an afterglow, Following the one just vanishing away.
Long be it ere the table shall be set For the last breakfast of the Autocrat, And love repeat with smiles and tears thereat His own sweet songs that time shall not forget.
Waiting with us the call to come up higher, Life is not less, the heavens are only higher! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
From purest wells of English undefiled None deeper drank than he, the New World's child, Who in the language of their farm-fields spoke The wit and wisdom of New England folk, Shaming a monstrous wrong.

The world-wide laugh Provoked thereby might well have shaken half The walls of Slavery down, ere yet the ball And mine of battle overthrew them all.
HAVERHILL.