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."

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

KEITH OF RAVELSTON

One of the most perfectly beautiful ghost stories I know; poetry in every line and every word.

THE murmur of the mourning ghost

That keeps the shadowy kine:

"Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!"

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill
And through the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The stile beneath the tree,

The maid that kept her mother's kine,

The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn,
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode through the Monday morn.

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine;

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade;
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine ;—
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold;
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says nought that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine ;—

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps where Andrew stood

Why blanch thy cheeks for fear!

The ancient stile is not alone,

'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine ;-
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

SYDNEY DOBELL.

THE YEAR'S ROUND

In three simple stanzas a great poet is able to give us a year, from winter to winter again.

The crocus, while the days are dark,
Unfolds its saffron sheen ;

At April's touch the crudest bark
Discovers gems of green.

Then sleep the seasons, full of night,
While slowly swells the pod

And rounds the peach, and in the night
The mushroom bursts the sod.

The winter falls, the frozen rut
Is bound with silver bars;

The snowdrift heaps against the hut,
And night is pierced with stars.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

THE PHASES OF THE MOON

"

If we are ever puzzled by the thin semicircle of the moon-whether it is crescent or dwindling, these four charming lines will teach us.

O Lady Moon, your horns point to the East; Shine, be increased!

O Lady Moon, your horns point to the West; Wane, be at rest!

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

"

FOREVER

Admire the irony—that is, the way of proving what you want to say by pretending that you want to say the contrary. It was, I think, at first an American who wrote "for ever as one word. We have learnt many good things from America, but we should not have copied that! Let all children who enjoy this poem for ever after write for ever."

"

FOREVER! 'Tis a single word!

Our rude forefathers deem'd it two.
Can you imagine so absurd

A view ?

Forever! What abysms of woe

The word reveals, what frenzy, what

Despair! For ever (printed so)

Did not.