Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 15.djvu/292

 I linger, until, at evening, &emsp;&emsp;The town-roofs, towering high, Uprear in the dimness their tall, dark chimneys, &emsp;&emsp;Indenting the sunset sky, And the pendent spear on the edge of the pier &emsp;&emsp;Signals my homeward way, As it gleams through the dusk like a walrus's tusk &emsp;&emsp;On the floes of a polar bay.

Then I think of the desolate households &emsp;&emsp;On which the day shuts down,— What misery hides in the darkened tides &emsp;&emsp;Of life in yonder town! I think of the lonely poet &emsp;&emsp;In his hours of coldness and pain, His fancies full-freighted, like lighters belated, &emsp;&emsp;All frozen within his brain.

And I hearken to the moanings &emsp;&emsp;That come from the burdened bay: As a camel, that kneels for his lading, reels, &emsp;&emsp;And cannot bear it away, The mighty load is slowly &emsp;&emsp;Upheaved with struggle and pain From centre to side, then the groaning tide &emsp;&emsp;Sinks heavily down again.

So day and night you may hear it &emsp;&emsp;Panting beneath its pack, Till sailor and saw, till south wind and thaw, &emsp;&emsp;Unbind it from its back. O Sun! will thy beam ever gladden the stream &emsp;&emsp;And bid its burden depart? O Life! all in vain do we strive with the chain &emsp;&emsp;That fetters and chills the heart?

Already in vision prophetic &emsp;&emsp;On yonder height I stand: The gulls are gay upon the bay, &emsp;&emsp;The swallows on the land;— 'Tis spring-time now; like an aspen-bough &emsp;&emsp;Shaken across the sky, In the silvery light with twinkling flight &emsp;&emsp;The rustling plovers fly.

Aloft in the sunlit cordage &emsp;&emsp;Behold the climbing tar, With his shadow beside on the sail white and wide, &emsp;&emsp;Climbing a shadow-spar! Up the glassy stream with issuing steam &emsp;&emsp;The cutter crawls again, All winged with cloud and buzzing loud, &emsp;&emsp;Like a bee upon the pane.