Poetry.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXI, Issue 2528, 22 September 1888, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

THE FISHER.

The fisher by tho rippling tide Within fevered lies, And gazes oifflfcie waters wide With lingering and wistful eyes, His nets lie idle on the strand,

The nets that he may cast no more, And nn'er again his feeble hand May furl the sail or touch the oar. He frets awhile—his lot bewails.

Through broken slumbers, low and weak. He hears the flap of idle sails And waters rippling up the creok. He hears afar the rush of seas,

The moan of winds, the curlew's cry, And on the fitful midnight breeze

The whisper comes that he must die. He folds his hands as his eyes grow dim,

Forgetting toils by time endeared, While solemn tides are bearing him

To shores that he has never nonred, Thoro comes an hour to each and all

Who toil upon life's solemn sea, When from the feeble hands must fall

Tho nets wo cast so fitfully. We leave them on the well-loved strand,

Yet dream not that it is for aye, Although the Master's beckoning hand And voice are calling us away. With many an inward fret and moan Wo leave the rudder, drop tho oar, And drift upon the ocean lone, Our toiling done fur evermore. So bear us on, 0 shining tide, While heavenly visions bless our eyes, Till holy, blest, and satisfied, Wo touch the shores of Paradise ! —Clara Thwaites,