Last Verses. Susan Coolidge

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      ON Calais sands the breakers roar

      In fierce and foaming track;

      The screaming sea-gulls dip and soar,

      White seen against the black;

      And shuddering wind and furling sail

      Are making ready for the gale.

      Ho, keeper of the Calais Light!

      See that your lamps burn free;

      For, if they should go out to-night,

      There will be wrecks at sea.

      Fill them and trim them with due care,

      For there is tempest in the air.

      “Go out? My lamps go out, you say?

      What words are on your lips?

      There, in the offing far away,

      Are sailing countless ships,

      Beyond my ken, beyond my sight,

      But all are watching Calais Light.

      “If but a single lamp should fail,

      A single flame burn dim,

      How could they ride the gathering gale,

      Or justly steer and trim?

      To right, to left, would equal be,

      There are no road-marks in the sea.

      “I should not hear their drowning cry,

      Or see the ship go down,

      And weeks and months might pass us by,

      Ere came to Calais town

      The word—‘A ship was lost one night,

      And all for want of Calais Light.’

      “Here in my tower, my lamps in row,

      I sit the long hours through;

      There is no soul to mark or know

      If I my duty do;

      Yet oftentimes I seem to see

      A world of eyes all bent on me!

      “Go out! My lamps go out! alas!

      It were a woeful day

      If ever it should come to pass

      That I must live to say,

      A ship went down in storm and night,

      Because there failed it Calais Light.”

      Ah, Christian, in your watch-tower set,

      Fill all your lamps and trim;

      For though there seem no watchers, yet

      Far in the darkness dim,

      Where souls are tossing out of view,

      A hundred eyes are fixed on you!

COR CORDIUM

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      ALL diamonded with glittering stars

      The vast blue arch of air;

      Pent in behind these mortal bars

      We strain our eyes to where,

      Oh noblest heart, thou walkest apart

      Amid thy heavenly kin.

      Though blinded with the veils of sense,

      We may not look within.

      Oh eyes so tender with command!

      Oh eloquent lips and true,

      Whose speech fell like a quickening fire,

      Fell like a healing dew!

      Oh zeal so strong to right the wrong,

      Oh rich, abounding heart!

      Oh stintless, tireless, kindest hand—

      God bless thee where thou art!

      Not thine the common fate to live

      Through life’s long weary days,

      And give all that thou had’st to give

      Uncheered by love and praise.

      Men did not wait to call thee great

      Till death had sealed thy brow.

      They crowned thy living head with bays;

      What does it matter now?

      Thy grave mound is a shrinèd place,

      Where pilgrim hearts may go,

      With loving thoughts and thankful prayers,

      Soft passing to and fro.

      Seldom with word the air is stirred,

      Seldom with sob or sigh;

      All silently and ceaselessly

      The march of hearts goes by.

      Now half our lives seems lived on earth,

      And half in heaven with thee.

      Our heart-beats measure out the road

      To where we fain would be—

      Beyond this strife of mortal life,

      This lonely ache and pain,

      Where we who miss and mourn thee so

      May find thee once again.

MARTHA

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