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Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;
Where the salt weed sways in the stream;
Where the sea beasts ranged all round
Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye?

When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away?
Once she sate with you and me,

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.

She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.
She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea,
She said; "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray

In the little gray church on the shore to-day.
"Twill be Easter-time in the world-ah me!
And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee."
I said;
"Go up, dear heart, through the waves.
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves."
She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone? "The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say. Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down

Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town.

Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little gray church on the windy hill.

From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.

We climbed on the graves, on the stones, worn with rains,

And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:

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Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.
Dear heart," I said, we are long alone.

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The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." But, ah, she gave me never a look,

For her eyes were sealed to the holy book.

"Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door."

Come away, children, call no more.

Come away, come down, call no more.

Down, down, down,

Down to the depths of the sea.

She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.

Hark, what she sings; "O joy, O joy,

For the humming street, and the child with its toy.
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well.
For the wheel where I spun,

And the blessed light of the sun."

And so she sings her fill,

Singing most joyfully,

Till the shuttle falls from her hand,

And the whizzing wheel stands still.

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;
And over the sand at the sea;

And her eyes are set in a stare ;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,

And a heart sorrow-laden,

A long, long sigh.

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,

And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away

children.

Come children, come down.
The hoarse wind blows colder ;
Lights shine in the town.

She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.

Singing, "Here came a mortal,

But faithless was she.

And alone dwell for ever

The kings of the sea."

But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow;
When clear falls the moonlight;
When spring-tides are low :
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom;
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom :
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie;
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side-
And then come back down.

Singing, "There dwells a loved one,

But cruel is she.

She left lonely for ever

The kings of the sea."

THE DEATH OF THE WARRIOR KING.— Swain.

THERE are noble heads bowed down and pale,
Deep sounds of woe arise,

And tears flow fast around the couch

Where a wounded warrior lies;

The hue of death is gathering dark

Upon his lofty brow,

And the arm of might and valour falls,
Weak as an infant's now.

I saw him 'mid the battling hosts,
Like a bright and leading star,

Where banner, helm, and falchion gleamed,
And flew the bolts of war.

When, in his plenitude of power,

He trod the Holy Land,

I saw the routed Saracens

Flee from his blood-dark brand.

I saw him in the banquet hour
Forsake the festive throng,
To seek his favourite minstrel's haunt,
And give his soul to song;

For dearly as he loved renown,

He loved that spell-wrought strain Which bade the brave of perished days Light conquest's torch again.

Then seemed the bard to cope with Time,

And triumph o'er his doomAnother world in freshness burst

Oblivion's mighty tomb! Again the hardy Britons rushed.

Like lions to the fight,

While horse and foot-helm, shield, and lance,

Swept by his visioned sight!

But battle shout and waving plume,
The drum's heart-stirring beat,
The glittering pomp of prosperous war,
The rush of million feet,

The magic of the minstrel's song,
Which told of victories o'er,
Are sights and sounds the dying king
Shall see shall hear no more!

It was the hour of deep midnight,
In the dim and quiet sky,

When, with sable cloak and 'broidered pall,
A funeral train swept by ;

Dull and sad fell the torches' glare

On many a stately crest—

They bore the noble warrior king

To his last dark home of rest.

LUCY.-Wordsworth.

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

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