“One bubble more!” I heard him call,
      And saw his trembling fingers play: 
    He snatched, and down the roaring fall,
      With the lost bubble, passed away!

A Dream of Life.

[Illustration:  Dream of Life]

    When I was young—­long, long ago—­
    I dreamed myself among the flowers;
    And fancy drew the picture so,
    They seemed like Fairies in their bowers.

    The rose was still a rose, you know—­
      But yet a maid.  What could I do? 
    You surely would not have me go,
      When rosy maidens seem to woo?

    My heart was gay, and ’mid the throng
      I sported for an hour or two;
    We danced the flowery paths along,
      And did as youthful lovers do.

    But sports must cease, and so I dreamed
      To part with these, my fairy flowers—­
    But oh, how very hard it seemed
      To say good-by ’mid such sweet bowers!

    And one fair Maid of modest air
      Gazed on me with her eye of blue;
    I saw the tear-drop gathering there—­
      How could I say to her, Adieu!

    I fondly gave my hand and heart,
      And we were wed.  Bright hour of youth! 
    How little did I think to part
      With my sweet bride, whose name was Truth!

    But time passed on, and Truth grew gray,
      And chided, though with gentlest art: 
    I loved her, though I went astray,
      And almost broke her faithful heart.

    And then I left her, and in tears—­
      These could not move my hardened breast! 
    I wandered, and for weary years
      I sought for bliss, but found no rest.

    I sought—­yet ever sought in vain—­
      To find the peace, the joy of youth: 
    At last, I turned me back again,
      And found them with my faithful Truth.

The Surf Sprite.

[Illustration:  The Surf Sprite]

I.

    In the far off sea there is many a sprite,
    Who rests by day, but awakes at night. 
    In hidden caves where monsters creep,
    When the sun is high, these spectres sleep: 
    From the glance of noon, they shrink with dread,
    And hide ’mid the bones of the ghastly dead. 
    Where the surf is hushed, and the light is dull,
    In the hollow tube and the whitened skull,
    They crouch in fear or in whispers wail,
    For the lingering night, and the coming gale. 
    But at even-tide, when the shore is dim,
    And bubbling wreaths with the billows swim,
    They rise on the wing of the freshened breeze,
    And flit with the wind o’er the rolling seas.

II.