THE FISHER OF THE CAPE.

At morn his bark like a bird

Slips lightly oceanward —

Sail feathering smooth o'er the bay

And beak that drinks the wild spray.

In his eyes beams cheerily

A light like the sun's on the sea,

As he watches the waning strand,

Where the foam, like a waving hand

Of one who mutely would tell

Her love, flutters faintly, “Farewell.”

But at night, when the winds arise

And pipe to driving skies,

And the moon peers, half afraid,

Through the storm-cloud's ragged shade,

He hears her voice in the blast

That sighs about the mast,

He sees her face in the clouds

As he climbs the whistling shrouds;

And a power nerves his hand,

Shall bring the bark to land.