DAWN IN PLYMOUTH HARBOR.

But half awake, the ripples twine, And brimming, tangle into wine; More vibrant than adoring strings, A random pennon slowly bears away; The fleet, alert to greet the day, In buoyant beauty, spreads its wings, With glowing expectation, preened for flight, An airy phantasy of light. In raptured unison the morning nears; The Oreads on distant hills have heard the ripple-song, On, past the gilded Gurnet, trails the snowy-pinioned throng, Old Saquish far behind, ’Till ’mong the sister-clouds it disappears.