We climb'd on the graves on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sat by the pillar; we saw her clear; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.' But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were seal'd 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, From the humming street, and the child with its toy, From the priest and the bell, and the holy well, From 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 her eyes are set in a stare ; A long, long sigh, For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair. Come away, away children, She will start from her slumber A pavement of pearl. Singing, 'Here came a mortal, And alone dwell forever But children, at midnight, We will gaze from the sand-hills, At the church on the hill-side- She left lonely forever The kings of the sea.' M. Arnold XXXV THE SANDS O' DEE I O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee !' The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. 2 The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land And never home came she. 3 Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair ?— A tress o' golden hair, O' drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea. Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee. 4 They row'd her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee. C. Kingsley XXXVI THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE Toll for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, A land breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the Royal George, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock: She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, Full charged with England's thunder, But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er ; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. W. Cowper XXXVII A SEA DIRGE Full fathom five thy father lies: Ding, dong, bell. W. Shakespeare |