Select Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 18, Issue 1107, 30 August 1871, Page 2

Select Poetry.

THE SISTERS. Annie and Rhoda, sisters twain, Woke in the night to the sound of rain. The rush of wind, the ramp and roar Of great waves climbing a rocky shore. " Hnsh and hearken ! " one cries in fear, " Hearest thou nothing, sister dear ? " " I hear the sea, and the plash of rain, And the roar of the north-east hurricane. Get thee back to thy bed so warm, No good comes of watching a storm. No lover of thine's afloat to miss The harbor-lights on a night like this." " But I heard a voice cry out ray name, Up from the sea on the wind it came. Twice and thrice have I heard it call, Aud the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!" On her pillow the sister tossed her head, " Hull of the Heron, is safe," she said. " In the tautest schooner that ever swaro lie rides at anchor in Anisquam. And, if in peril from swamping sea Or lee shore rocks, would lie call on thee ?" But the girl only heard the wiad and tide, And wringing her small, white hands, she cried ; " 0, sister Rhoda, there's something wrong ; I hear it again so loud and long. ' Annie ! Annie !' I heard it call, And the voice is ihe voice of Estwick Hall!" Up sprang the elder with eyes aflame, " Thou iiest; he never would call thy uame ! If he did, I would pray the wind aud sea To keep him for ever irom thee and me ! " Then out of t' e sea blew a dreadful blast j Like the cry of a dying man it passed. The young girl hushed on her lips a groan But through her tears a strange light shone — The solemn joy of her heart's release To own and cherish its love in peace. " Dearest,'' she whispered under breath, " Lire whs a lie, but true is death. The love I had hid from myself away Shall crown me now in the light of day, My ears shall never to wooer list, Never by lover my lips be kissed. Sacred to thee am I henceforth, Thou in heaven and I on earth!" She came and stood by her sister's bed ; "Hall of the Heron is dead," she said. " The wind and the waves their work have done, We shall see him no more beneath the sun. Little will reck that heart of thine, It loved him not with a love like mine. I for his sake, were he but here, Could hem aud broider thy bridal gear, Though hands should tremble and ejes be wet, And stilch for stitch in my heart be set. But now my soul with his soul I wed; Thine the living and mine the dead !" John G. Whittier. Atlantic Monthly.