HE gazed at the green sea heaving white

And the wind-blown rocky shore,

And he said: "I must turn

To a place less stern,

When, tired in body and soul, I yearn

To sleep and be no more."

He entered the chasm haunted by

The white-robed waterfall;

But the pool below

Was cold as snow,

Not fit for a dying heart to know, -

Meant only to appall.

He climbed where Katahdin's dreadful gulch

Is walled by the precipice bare.

The inhuman tone

Of the wild wind's moan

Told him that here he should die alone,

Without even Nature's care.

He found a place by a brooklet's side

Warm with the summer's sun;

To the loving wave

One hand he gave,

The other he rested upon.

The wind blew gently up from the lake

With a soft and light caress;

The branching trees

And the woodland breeze,

And the pillowing grass that echoed these

Murmured their tenderness.

Like a rustling wind in a forest thick

Was his calm and peaceful breath,

As with quivering feet

His light heart-beat

Fled to the realms of death.

That moment stirred the forest's soul,

And it heaved a wavy sigh.

From the trees and the ground

And from all around

Was heard a sad and wondrous sound

Like a plaintive melody.

Spirits the living must not see

Rose from each shadowy nook,

And God above,

In his arms of love,

The homeless wanderer took.

W. P. E.