Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 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: 66 Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. 66 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, Hark, what she sings; "O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy. 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 her eyes are set in a stare ; 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. She will start from her slumber Singing, "Here came a mortal, But faithless was she. And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea." But, children, at midnight, 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, 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, I saw him 'mid the battling hosts, Where banner, helm, and falchion gleamed, 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 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 magic of the minstrel's song, It was the hour of deep midnight, When, with sable cloak and 'broidered pall, 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, A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one |