When the bugler morn shall wind his horn, And we wake to the wild to be, Shall we open our eyes on the selfsame skies And stare at the selfsame sea? O new, new day! though you bring no stay To the strain of the sameness grim, You are new, new, new—new through and through, And strange as a lawless dream. Will the driftwood float by the lonely boat And our prisoner hearts unbar, As it tells of the strand of an unseen land That lies not far, not far? O new, new hope! O sweep and scope Of the glad, unlying sea! You are new, new, new—with the promise true Of the dreamland isles to be. Will the land-birds fly across the sky, Though the land is not to see? Have they dipped and passed in the sea-line vast? Have we left the land a-lee? O new despair! I though the hopeless air Grow foul with the calm and grieves, You are new, new, new—and we cleave to you As a soul to its freedom cleaves. Does the falling night hide fiends to fight And phantoms to affray? What demons lurk in the grisly mirk, As the night-watch waits for day? O strange new gloom! we await the doom, And what doom none may deem; But it's new, new, new—and we'll sail it through, While the mocking sea-gulls scream. A light, a light, in the dead of night, That lifts and sinks in the waves! What folk are they who have kindled its ray,— Men or the ghouls of graves? O new, new fear! near, near and near, And you bear us weal or woe! But you're new, new, new—so a cheer for you! And onward—friend or foe! Shall the lookout call from the foretop tall, "Land, land!" with a maddened scream, And the crew in glee from the taffrail see Where the island palm-trees dream? New heart, new eyes! For the morning skies Are a-chant with their green and gold! New, new, new, new—new through and through! New, new till the dawn is old! 

A MORE ANCIENT MARINER.

 The swarthy bee is a buccaneer, A burly velveted rover, Who loves the booming wind in his ear As he sails the seas of clover. A waif of the goblin pirate crew, With not a soul to deplore him, He steers for the open verge of blue With the filmy world before him. His flimsy sails abroad on the wind Are shivered with fairy thunder; On a line that sings to the light of his wings He makes for the lands of wonder. He harries the ports of the Hollyhocks, And levies on poor Sweetbrier; He drinks the whitest wine of Phlox, And the Rose is his desire. He hangs in the Willows a night and a day; He rifles the Buckwheat patches; Then battens his store of pelf galore Under the tautest hatches. He woos the Poppy and weds the Peach, Inveigles Daffodilly, And then like a tramp abandons each For the gorgeous Canada Lily. There's not a soul in the garden world But wishes 

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