The Dead Stowaway.

He lay on the beach, just out of the reach             Of waves that had cast him by:         With fingers grim they reached for him             As often as they came nigh.         The shore-face brown had a surly frown,             And glanced at the dancing sea,         As if to say, "Take back the clay             You tossed this morning at me."         Great fragments rude, by the shipwreck strewed,             Had found by this wreck a place;         He had grasped them tight, and hope-strewn fright             Sat still on the bloated face.         Battered and bruised, forever abused,             He lay by the heartless sea,         As if Heaven's aid had never been made             For a villain such as he.         The fetter's mark lay heavy and dark             Around the pulseless wrists;         The hardened scar of many a war             Clung yet to the drooping fists.         The soul's disgrace across that face             Had built an iron track;         The half-healed gash of the jailman's lash             Helped cover the brawny back.         The blood that flowed in a crimson road             From a deep wound in his head         Had felt fierce pangs from the poison-fangs             Of those who his young life fed:         Cursed from the very beginning             With deeds that others had done,         "More sinned against than sinning" -             And so is every one!         He had never learned save what had turned             The steps of his life amiss;         He never knew a hand-grasp true,             Or the thrill of a virtuous kiss.         'Twas poured like a flood through his young blood,             And poisoned every vein,         That wrong is right, that law is spite,             And theft but honest gain.         The seeds were grown that had long been sown             By the heart of a murderous sire:         Disease and shame, and blood aflame             With thirst for the founts of fire.         Battered and bruised, forever abused,             He lay by the moaning sea,         As if Heaven's aid were even afraid             Of a villain such as he.         As he lay alone, like a sparrow prone,             An angel wandered nigh:         A look she cast over that dark past,             And tears came to her eye.         She bent by the dead, and tenderly said:             "Poor child, you went astray;         Your heart and mind were both born blind -             No wonder they lost their way!         Angels, I know, had fallen as low             With such a dismal chance.         Your heart was ironed, your soul environed,             You were barred of all advance!         Cursed from the very beginning             With deeds that others have done,         'More sinned against than sinning' -             And so is every one!"     [From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]     MAY 24, 18 - .             The Lord gave Water quite a good-sized start -             Three-fourths of this world's homestead for its part;             But lawyers are not needed to convince             That Water has been losing ever since.             The reason is not hard to understand:             For God's most knowing creatures live on land,             And, naturally, every chance they get,             Find some new means to keep them from the wet.             The farms their dykes have from the ocean won;             The ground men make to build their cities on;             The bridge that from the river shelters me;             The ships - great travelling bridges of the sea -             All are an effort of ambitious man             To make this world as solid as he can.             These thoughts, to-day, all through my mind would run,             While looking at a bridge they've just got done,             Which takes a man, dry shod, from shore to shore -             A matter of a good long mile or more.             I can't describe it; but I'll let the papers             (Who tell some truth, 'mid all their fancy capers)             To my old scrap-book give of it a taste             (What I can't do with ink I'll do with paste).