DYING AMONG THE PINES.
Dying among the pines,—the living pines, That bold their heads green all the winter through, And from their dark trunks seam'd with silver lines, Drop down all day their healing balm-like dew.
Where the soft beat of the slow pulsing sea, Scarce ruffles on the level sparkling sand, So well the pine woods hanging on her lea, Filter the rough winds ere they touch the strand.
Dying, still dying—far out in the wood, Over the sand, there lies a sacred ground, Where quaint white wreath and roughly carven road Tell how the toil-worn fishers sleep around.
Out in the wood, beyond the sandy reach Of the white dimes —Ah ! me, 'tis far to lie, There are no northern daisies by this beach ; She had no need to wander here to die.
As when, from some great ship in mid seas wreck'd, A baby corpse is drifted on some isle, For the short sleep that was so long bedeck'd In purest lawn, and wearing still a smile ; Which finding, the dark natives, with white teeth And plumed heads, lay covered in some cave— So leave the English lady underneath
The southern pines, beside the fisher's grave.
Through the green bough aslant, the warm sunbeams Shall wrap her feet as in a dazzling shroud, Surely this wealth of natural life beseems Her better than the raindrop and the cloud.
For still dim gleams its symbolling's unroll Of that great life whereof the door 111 death ; And the sweet love of Christ, that to the soul Is sun, and light, and shade, and balmy breath.
Dling among the pines—Ali! lightly lie, V, bite sand that bear'st nor violet nor macs; This earth is hallow'd under every sky, A wreath of glory hangs on every cross. C. F. A.
ARCACHOS.
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