at the fine centrifugal spokes of light round the shape
of my head, in the sun-lit water,
Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and south-westward,
Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
Look'd towards the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw the ships at
anchor,
The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,
The round masts, the swimming motion of the hulls, the slender
serpentine pennants,
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their
pilot-houses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl
of the wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the
frolicsome crests and glistening,
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls
of the granite store-houses by the docks,
On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely
flank'd on each side by the barges--the hay-boat, the
belated lighter,
On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys
burning high and glaringly into the night.
Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and
yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the
clefts of streets.

These and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;
I project myself a moment to tell you--also I return.

[Footnote 86: Was born in New York in 1819, and has been printer,
teacher, and later, an official at Washington. His poetry, though
irregular in form, and often coarse in sentiment, is decidedly original
and vigorous.]

* * * * *

=_Amelia B. Welby, 1819-1852._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_402._= "THE BEREAVED."

It is a still and lovely spot
Where they have laid thee down to rest;
The white rose and forget-me-not
Bloom sweetly on thy breast,
And birds and streams with liquid lull
Have made the stillness beautiful.

And softly through the forest bars
Light, lovely shapes, on glossy plumes,
Float ever in, like winged stars,
Amid the purpling glooms.
Their sweet songs, borne from tree to tree,
Thrill the light leaves with melody.

Alas! too deep a weight of thought
Had filled thy heart in youth's swe