AT KALK BAY.
Asleep! now dreams the curly head
Of all the treasures I outspread
Upon the shore—queer ocean things:
Blue men-of-war, all strings and stings;
An octopus; two prickly green
And swollen fish, aburst with spleen.
To bring them home, thine only care;
Of odour fearsome, nursemaid's glare,
Oblivious. Sobbing in thy sleep!
I, the stern father, come to peep,
Kiss thee, and place this new-bought toy
There—in the bucket—morning's joy!
When life's night cometh will the store
That I have gathered strew the shore?
Is what we rescue from the wave
So priceless—worth our while to save?
Does he whose bucket on the sand
Is emptied by the Father's hand
Lose aught? Kindly is God's contempt
For man's upgatherings. If exempt
From heritage of failing powers,
No richer than in heavenly bowers,
A day of healthful toil they gain,
Not what the bucket may contain.
