Sceaf.

THE night had fallen on the sleeping waves
That left in silence all the Northern sea,

While stars had come forth, one by one, and shone
On the smooth waters and thick-wooded shore;
And, past meridian, the moon inclined

Down in the westward toward the British Isles,
Lighting a path across the dim expanse
Far toward the happy islands and herself,—
A path by man untraversed, mystic, strange,
Leading, as some said, to the open gates
Of a new world of joy and endless peace;
While all men held that he, who had the might
To follow out that path, could never die,
But as a god should reign forevermore.
Along the misty ocean's barrier coast
The trusty sentinels of the old sea-king
Maintained till break of day their lonely watch,
Lest roving northern kinsmen should despoil
Them of their plunder, and destroy their towns,
Or burn their ships in an unguarded hour.

Oh what is that dark spot

Far out in the track of the moon, Drifting in with the rising tide,

That now is seen and now appeareth not,

A little speck on the waters wide
In the silvered path of the moon.

The tide comes flowing on

And measures its height on the rocks,
Hasting along the shelving beach.

It bears to-night unwonted treasure upon
Its bosom, and floats it within the reach
Of the sentinels there on the rocks.

A tiny ozier ark

Like a product of fairy land

Wrought with the greatest labor and care! The watchers opened it in the night half-dark, And found an infaut, wondrous fair,

And such gems as in fairy land.

From all the lofty masts, that made the harbor seem A forest bared of bark and limb,

The darkened emblems of a public mountain stream, For all that fleet was built by him.

Upon his palace tower by seaward breezes blown,
The sign of common sorrow flies,

Within, an idle crown upon the vacant throne
Beside a broken scepter lies.

But soon, as now the solemn mourners' feast was done,
They laid the crown upon his head,

And moving seaward at the hour of setting sun,
In state they bore their royal dead.

The sun had sunk beneath the waves
That idled on the Northern sea,
The eastern wind was soft and low.
The westward-turning tide was slow,
Asleep all else appeared to be.

The moon was in the western sky,
And, far across the waves, a glow
Of splendor that it only hath
Lit up a strange and mystic path,
The same as seventy years ago.

The tallest ship of all the fleet

Lay moored beside the silent shore,

And in it laid with greatest care
Were costly gems, and treasures rare,
And wealth unmatched before.

They laid the king beside the mast,
His head still wore the royal crown,
His golden standard near him stood,
Beside him lay his sword so good,
Black samite over him was thrown.

The chiefs about him laid their arms,
And placed a sheaf of ripened grain
Beside him, and they wrote his name,
His age, his rank, and whence he came,
Around the prow in letters plain.

No sail was raised, the ship unmoored
Set forth, and then a dirge-hymn rang
Out clearly, as the ship moved on
Far down the pathway of the moon.
This was the dirge the people sang:--

"The sun will rise again upon the darkened land, But Sceaf our glory comes to us no more.

"Our laden ships go tailing by the beach of sand, But he, their builder, comes to us no more.

"Our grain grows tall and ripe beneath the tiller's hand, But he that brought it comes to us no more.

"The tides forever have their ceaseless ebb and flow

And men and things and seasons lightly come and go.

"But days like those of yore we never more shall know, For Sceaf our king will come to us no more."

Long years afterward came the rumor,—
Borne on the winds it seemed to be,

For whence it came none ever knew,

But all men held its import true,—

That Sceaf was king of the happy islands,
That lay far off in the western sea.

There he was reigning in youth immortal,
Matchless in honor, of limitless sway,
Where all throughout the golden year
The fields were green and the sky was clear,-
Where all things partook of a life unceasing,
In a realm of endless day.

S.

Two Letters.

I.

FROM WM. WARPATH, LATE CAPT. U. S. VOLUNTEERS, TO DAVID DOOLITTLE, SENIOR IN YALE COLLEGE:

MY DEAR DOOLITTLE:

Ir is nearly four years since our paths of life, so long running side by side, abruptly separated; yours to carry you to the University, beneath the shadow of whose venerable walls you still abide; mine to lead me to the "gory battle-field." Well, during those four years, I have undergone the stereotyped experience described to you so often by Chaplains of a literary turn, newspaper correspondents, and reverend, but very trashy, historians. I have wallowed in the "sacred soil;" I have fed on the inevitable "hard-tack” and “salthorse;" I have slept under the "starry canopy of heaven;" I have charged and retreated; flanked and wheeled; routed and been routed; and in fact, as our reverend but trashy historian might say, have drunk my draught out of the nation's cup of bitterness. And now that I have returned to civil life, my thoughts often turn to that College life to which we had looked forward together, before the trumpetnote of war disturbed our dreams. I feel a great desire to know what it is that I have given up.

Tell me, then, what kind of a place is Yale College? I know that some five hundred students are gathered within half a dozen of the ugliest brick buildings in the country, going over a given routine of study; I occasionally read in the newspapers an indignant paragraph about the sufferings of Freshmen from Sophomoric insolence; I hear of an annual boat race; and this is the entire extent of my knowledge with regard to an institution which, whatever may be its deficiencies, is certainly the nearest approach to a University that our country affords. With so scanty a knowledge, I am by no means satisfied. I want to know something about the real character of your College community; what are its peculiar customs; what is its tone of public opinion; what ideas it holds; into what classes of men it divides itself; what are its prominent merits and faults.

By gratifying my curiosity upon these points, you will oblige &c.,

&c.