20 25 330 35 40 45 50 55 Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy dyke,* Fill the lake with wildfowl; Through the black fir-forest Hark! The brave North-easter! Chime, ye dappled * darlings, Chime, ye dappled darlings,* Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow, Let the luscious* South wind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask* in ladies' eyes. What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard grey winter What's the soft South-wester ? * JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART (1794-1854) was born in Lanarkshire, and married the eldest daughter of Sir Walter Scott in 1820. In early life he wrote several tales and biographies and published his translations of the Spanish Ballads. He also wrote the Lives of Burns, Napoleon, and Theodore Hook. His Life of Scott is one of the finest biographies we possess. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell." * Albuharez' daughter, "The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls' in silver set, * * was far away, I ne'er That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor * But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale When he comes back, and hears that I have Oh what will Muça think of me, I cannot, can- 5 ΙΟ "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they should Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering * 15 Of jasper* and of onyx* and of diamonds shining 20 25 Changing to the changing light, with radiance in sincere That changeful mind unchanging gems are not be- Thus will he think-and what to say, alas! I cannot * "He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way; He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say; He'll think some other lover's hand among my tresses* From the ears where he had placed them, my rings He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble My pearls fell in,—and what to say, alas! I cannot 66 'He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same; But when he went to Tunis* my virgin troth had And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless, luckless* well! 30 For what to say to Muça, alas! I cannot tell. "I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will be- That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve; That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, * * His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain alla lone; 35 And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my And that deep his love* lies in my heart, as they lie THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.*-Arnold. MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822- ), son of the celebrated Dr. Arnold, occupies an eminent position. His poems include several dramas after the antique, and a series of lyrics and sonnets of an emotional kind. Among his works may be mentioned Empedocles on Etna and The Merope. Bay, a bay is a broad waves. Foam, to spit out froth, to be in a rage. Caverns, deep hollow places in the earth or sea. Surf, the foam made by the dashing of the waves. One last look at the white-walled town, 5 ΙΟ 15 20 25 And the little grey church on the windy shore, Then come down, She will not come though you call all day, Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? 30 35 * Merman, a man of the sea; a fabled marine animal having the upper part like a man and the lower like a fish. Where the spent lights quiver* and gleam ;* 50 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 When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. 55 She sighed, she looked up through the clear * green sea, 60 I said, “Go up, dear heart, through the waves. 65 caves." 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- Sea-stock, a flower, walled town. like an anemone, found near the sea 70 Through the narrow paved streets, where all shore. was still, To the little grey church on the windy hill. their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. |