THE SPECTRAL ROWERS

What is that shimmering line of white

Gliding under the stark midnight —

Gliding — gliding — gliding — gliding —

Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?

There is never a sound save the night bird's cry,

And the languid water lapsing by —

Lapsing — lapsing — lapsing — lapsing —

Under the arch of a leaden sky.

‘ T is the winding Garavogue's spectral crew,

Bound for the port of dreams-come-true —

Rowing — rowing — rowing — rowing —

With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.

Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;

Yet who can say?— not we!— not we!—

Fading — fading — fading — fading —

Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.

‘ T is so with all of the visions of man,

Howe'er he strive and howe'er he plan —

Fleeting — fleeting — fleeting — fleeting —

For life, alas, is a narrow span!