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. 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; And the blessed light of the sun!" Singing most joyfully; Till the shuttle falls from her hand, She steals, to the window and looks at the sand, For the cold, strange eyes of a little mermaiden Come away-away, children. A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl; But, children, at midnight, And high rocks throw mildly On the blanched sands a gloom Up the still glistening beaches, Singing-"There dwells a loved one; She left lonely for ever The Kings of the Sea!" MATTHEW ARNOLD. "METHOUGHT I SAW.” METHOUGHT I saw a thousand fearful wrecks, All scattered in the bosom of the sea. Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes, And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by. THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure caves and cells, 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 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, Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play! Yet more, thy billows and thy depths have more! The battle-thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy wave! Give back the lost and lovely!-those for whom And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song. Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown : 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. |