From The North Shore.
TO Day she would not show her charms;
But now the Night beseeches,
A white reproach of wistful arms
Over the bay she reaches.
Upon her gleaming bosom, wet
With tears and quivering,
In ropes of golden beauty set
Her vivid jewels swing.
Upon the pathway of the night
She, pausing often, paces;
About her body waves gleam white
Like froth of filmy laces;
And to her pleasure hurrying,
Their torches holding high,
On molten waters smouldering
The ferry-boats flame by.