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 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 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

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.
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,

What triumph! hark—what pain! O Wanderer from a Grecian shore, Still, after many years, in distant lands,

Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain

That wild, unquenched, deep-
sunken, old-world pain-
Say, will it never heal?
And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet tranquil Thames,
And moonshine and the dew,
To thy racked heart and brain
Afford no balm ?

Dost thou to-night behold
Here, through the moonlight on
this English grass,

10. FROM

M. ARNOLD.

The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?

Dost thou again peruse
With hot cheeks and seared eyes
The too clear web, and thy dumb
Sister's shame ?

Dost thou once more assay
Thy flight, and feel come over
thee,

Poor Fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to

LIKE us the lightning fires Love to have scope and play. The stream, like us, desires An unimpeded way. Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large.

Streams will not curb their
pride

The just man not to entomb,
Nor lightnings go aside

To leave his virtues room,

Nor is the wind less rough that blows a good man's barge.

Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play, Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away; Allows the proudly-riding and the foundering bark.

Is it so small a thing

To have enjoyed the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought,
to have done;

To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;

VAIN is the effort to forget.
Some day I shall be cold, I know,
As is the eternal moon-lit snow
Of the high Alps, to which I go:
But ah, not yet! not yet!
Vain is the agony of grief.
'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot
Ties straitly up from mine thy
lot,

And were it snapt-thou lov'st me not!

But is despair relief ?

Awhile let me with thought have done;

And as this brimmed unwrinkled Rhine

M. ARNOLD.

And that far purple mountain line
Lie sweetly in the look divine
Of the slow-sinking sun;

So let me lie, and calm as they
Let beam upon my inward view
Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent
hue-

Eyes too expressive to be blue, Too lovely to be grey.

Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm! Those blue hills too, this river's flow,

Were restless once, but long ago. Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow:

Their joy is in their calm.
M. ARNOLD.