Page:Poems Cook.djvu/317

Few years have waned—and now he stands
Bareheaded on the shelving sands;
A boat is moor'd, but his young hands cope
Right well with the twisted cable rope;
He frees the craft, she kisses the tide;
The boy has climb'd her beaten side:
She drifts—she floats—he shouts with glee;
His soul hath claim'd its right on the sea.

'Tis vain to tell him the howling breath.
Rides over the waters with wreck and death!
He'll say there's more of fear and pain
On the plague-ridden earth than the storm-lash'd main.
'Twould be as wise to spend thy power
In trying to lure the bee from the flower,
The lark from the sky, or the worm from the grave,
As in weaning the sea-child from the wave.

 

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THE HAPPY MIND.

Out upon the calf, I say,
Who turns his grumbling head away,
And quarrels with his feed of hay
 Because it is not clover.
Give to me the happy mind,
That will ever seek and find
Something fair and something kind,
 All the wide world over.

'Tis passing good to have an eye
That always manages to spy
Some star to bear it company,
 Though planets may be hidden.

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