SOFTLY the blue waves murmured a song,
Sweet was their music free;
But aye the ship was nearing the rock
That had waited centuries in the sea.
Many a mile had the traveller been,
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O'er mountain, hill, and dale;
Little thought he that his life would end
In the loneliness of a dreary vale.
An eagle watches the trembling dove,
That lingers, loath to go;
Slowly it flutters away to death,
As the pitiless bird comes swooping low.
But though death waits, why, joy waits too,
And somewhere bides for me
One whom the skill of the busy days
Hath fashioned in loveliest symmetry.
F. A. T.
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