21 JUNE 1879, Page 16

POETRY.

AT SEA.

WoRN voyagers, who watch for land Across the endless wastes of sea, Who gaze before and on each hand, Why look ye not to what ye flee The stars, by which the sailors steer, Not always rise before the prow ; Though forward nought but clouds appear, Behind they may be breaking now.

What though we may not turn again To shores of childhood that we leave, Are those old signs we followed, vain ?

Can guides so oft found true, deceive ?

Oh, sail we to the South or North, Oh, sail we to the East or West, The port from which we first put forth Is our heart's home, is our life's best F. W. B.