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 comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.
She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea.
She said, 'I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
In the little grey 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-wall'd town.
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,
To the little grey 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 climb'd 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:
'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.
Dear heart,' I said, 'we are long alone.
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,
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:

699

And alane 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 starr'd with broom;
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanch'd 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 SONG OF CALLICLES

Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts,

Thick breaks the red flame.

All Etna heaves fiercely

Her forest-clothed frame.

Not here, O Apollo!

Are haunts meet for thee.

But, where Helicon breaks down

In cliff to the sea.

Where the moon-silver'd inlets

Send far their light voice

Up the still vale of Thisbe,

O speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-top,
Lie strewn the white flocks;
On the cliff-side, the pigeons
Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds,
Soft lull'd by the rills,
Lie wrapt in their blankets,
Asleep on the hills.

—What forms are these coming So white through the gloom? What garments out-glistening The gold-flower'd broom?

What sweet-breathing Presence
Out-perfumes the thyme?
What voices enrapture
The night's balmy prime?—

'Tis Apollo comes leading
His choir, The Nine.
—The Leader is fairest,
But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows.

They stream up again.

What seeks on this mountain

The glorified train?—

They bathe on this mountain,
In the spring by their road.
Then on to Olympus,

Their endless abode.

—Whose praise do they mention:

Of what is it told?—

What will be for ever.

What was from of old.

First hymn they the Father
Of all things: and then,
The rest of Immortals,
The action of men.

The Day in his hotness,
The strife with the palm;
The Night in her silence,
The Stars in their calm.

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TO MARGUERITE

Yes: in the sea of life enisled,

With echoing straits between us thrown.
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,

We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,

The nightingales divinely sing;

And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour;

O then a longing like despair

Is to their farthest caverns sent!
For surely once, they feel we were

Parts of a single continent.

Now round us spreads the watery plain—
O might our marges meet again!

Who order'd that their longing's fire

Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?
Who renders vain their deep desire?—
A God, a God their severance ruled;
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt; estranging sea.

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