V kat are the days but islands, Sn mauy üttle islsnds, And sleop the sea of silence Tliat flows about them all P 'l'here, when the moon is risen The poaeei'ul waters glisten ; lint vonder ploshing' Lirten ! It 'is the ioute thftt fall. The üttle boats are ikimming, The vrine-led boats are Bkimming, Each in its süver rimming, Apart froni neet and shore. There not an oar is dippiug; With j nst a cable's slippmg Olides out the phantom shipping Thai vraadsn svermoro. Kvery day's an island, A green or barren island, A lowland or a highiftnd, That looks upon the sea. There fruitful roves are erowning, 'l'here barren cliffs are frowning, And roejty channels drowning The litfle boats that flee. Hot? many are the islands, The teemiug, talking islsnda, That in the sea of silence The roving vessels fmd ? 'J'lieir number no man knovveth, Their way the enrrent showeth. Tlie tide retuvidess floweth, A ■ each U-it behind. The sailors long to tarry ; l-'i r rest they long to tarry ; When at some isle of fairy They touch and go ashore. With songs of wistful pleadiu They follow fate unheeding, Aud with the tides recediny Are drifted as befoi. But sometimes, in the sailing, 'J'he blind and endlesa sailing. They pass beyond the hailiug Of land upon the lea ; The lowlands and the highland And all beyond the islands, Behold the sea of silence ! Behold the great white sea ! '-Hnrpers Magazine.