She sighed. She looked 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-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 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 sealed 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:
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.

"METHOUGHT I SAW.”

METHOUGHT I saw a thousand fearful wrecks,
A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon,
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scattered in the bosom of the sea.

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes,
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,
As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.
SHAKESPEARE.

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure caves and cells,
Thou hollow sounding and mysterious Main?
Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-coloured shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain !-
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy Sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, thy depths have more! What wealth untold

Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand argosies!

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful
Main !

Earth claims not these again.

Yet more, thy depths have more! Thy waves have

rolled

Above the cities of a world gone by;

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Seaweed o'er grown the halls of revelry.

Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play!
Man yields them to decay.

Yet more, thy billows and thy depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast;
They hear not now the booming waters roar,—

The battle-thunders will not break their rest.

Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy wave!
Give back the true and brave:

Give back the lost and lovely!-those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up, through midnight's breathless
gloom,

And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song.

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown :
But all is not thine own.

To thee the love of women hath gone down;

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown. Yet must thou hear a voice: Restore the deadEarth shall reclaim her precious things from theeRestore the dead, thou Sea!

FELICIA HEMANS.1

1 The daughter of George Browne, a Liverpool merchant of Irish extraction. Her mother was of Italio-German blood; so that Felicia had three nationalities in her veins, the ways of a fourth in her bringing up and education, and became a Nature worshipper in her childhood in North Wales, where reverses of fortune compelled her father to retire. At the age of fifteen she published her first book, at eighteen her second, and at once married Capt. Hemans, an army man whose health had been shattered in the Peninsular campaign. After six years of unhappy married life, they parted for ever; she spent the remainder of her life in bringing up and educating her children, and in writing poetry. Amongst her friends were Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, Archbishop Whately, Heber and others. She was an enthusiast in music, and was proficient in four foreign languages. She had the "fatal facility" of the highly talented verse-makers whose work falls just short of the divine touch of transmutation. Without any particular force or originality she has left a few lyrics, the natural sweetness of which, combined with their "reflected essence of truth," ensures them a long life in English poetry.