POETRY.
AN OLD BOAT.
I PASSED a boat to-day on the shore,
That will be launched on the sea no more.
Worn and battered,—the straight keel bent, The side, like a ruined rampart, rent ; Left alone, with no covering, For who would steal such a useless thing ?
It was shapely once, when the shipwright's hand
Had laid each plank as the master planned ; And it danced for joy on the curling wave, When first the sea's broad breast it cave; And it felt the pulse of the well-timed stroke, That rang on the thole-pin of tuneful oak.
Oft it has carried home the spoil Of fishers, tired with night-long toil ; And often, in summer days, it knew The laugh of a pleasure-seeking crew ; Or launched by night on the blinding waves, It has rescued a life from the sea's dark graves.
It is useless now, as it lies on the beach, Drawn high beyond the billow's reach ; And none of all it has served in stress Remember it now, in its lonelidess. F. W. B.
Previous page
