20

25

330

35

40

45

50

55

Sweep the golden reed-beds;

Crisp the lazy dyke,*
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike.*

Fill the lake with wildfowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew * pipe.

Through the black fir-forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snowflakes
Off the curdled sky.

Hark! The brave North-easter!
Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt * and headland,*
Over heath * and bent.*

Chime, ye dappled * darlings,
Through the sleet and snow.
Who can override you?
Let the horses go!

Chime, ye dappled darlings,*
Down the roaring blast:
You shall see a fox die

Ere an hour be past.

Go! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams.

Let the luscious* South wind

Breathe in lovers' sighs,

While the lazy gallants

Bask* in ladies' eyes.

What does he but soften

Heart alike and pen?

'Tis the hard grey winter
Breeds hard Englishmen.*

What's the soft South-wester ? *
'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Bringing home their true loves
Out of all the seas:

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART (1794-1854) was born in Lanarkshire, and married the eldest daughter of Sir Walter Scott in 1820. In early life he wrote several tales and biographies and published his translations of the Spanish Ballads. He also wrote the Lives of Burns, Napoleon, and Theodore Hook. His Life of Scott is one of the finest biographies we possess.

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped
into the well,

And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell."
'Twas thus Granada's fountain by, spoke

*

Albuharez' daughter,

"The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath

the cold blue water

To me did Muça give them, when he spake his

sad farewell,

And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I
cannot tell.

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls'

in silver set,
That when my Moor
should him forget,

*

*

was far away, I ne'er

That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor
smile on other's tale,

*

But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as

those ear-rings pale

When he comes back, and hears that I have
dropped them in the well,

Oh what will Muça think of me, I cannot, can-
not tell.

5

ΙΟ

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they should
have been

Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering *
sheen,*

15 Of jasper* and of onyx* and of diamonds shining
clear,

20

25

Changing to the changing light, with radiance in

sincere

That changeful mind unchanging gems are not be-
fitting well-

Thus will he think-and what to say, alas! I cannot
tell.

*

"He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by

the way;

He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might

say;

He'll think some other lover's hand among my tresses*
noosed,*

From the ears where he had placed them, my rings
of pearl unloosed;

He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble
well,

My pearls fell in,—and what to say, alas! I cannot
tell.

66

'He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same;
He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his
flame-

But when he went to Tunis* my virgin troth had
broken,

And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his
token.

My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless, luckless* well! 30 For what to say to Muça, alas! I cannot tell.

"I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will be-
lieve-

That I thought of him at morning, and thought of

him at eve;

That musing on my lover, when down the sun

was gone,

*

*

His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain

alla lone;

35 And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my
hand they fell,

And that deep his love* lies in my heart, as they lie
in the well!"

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.*-Arnold.

MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822- ), son of the celebrated Dr. Arnold, occupies an eminent position. His poems include several dramas after the antique, and a series of lyrics and sonnets of an emotional kind. Among his works may be mentioned Empedocles on Etna and The Merope.

Bay, a bay is a broad
arm of the sea run-
ning for a short dis-
tance into the land.
Tides, the flow and
ebb of the sea.
Champ, to make a
snapping noise with
the jaws in chewing
Chafe, to rage or fret.
Spray, small particles
of water sprinkled or
driven by the wind
from the tops of the

waves.

Foam, to spit out froth, to be in a rage.

Caverns, deep hollow places in the earth

or sea.

Surf, the foam made by the dashing of the

waves.

One last look at the white-walled town,

5

ΙΟ

15

20

25

And the little grey church on the windy shore,

Then come down,

She will not come though you call all day,
Come away, come away.

Children dear, was it yesterday

We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
In the caverns* where we lay,
Through the surf* and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;

30

35

* Merman, a man of the sea; a fabled marine animal having the upper part like a man and the lower like a fish.

Where the spent lights quiver* and gleam ;*
Where the salt weed sways* in the stream;
Where the sea beasts* ranged all round
40 Feed in the ooze * of their pasture-ground;
Where the sea-snakes * coil and twine,
Dry their mail* and bask in the brine ;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
45 Round the world for ever and aye?
When did music come this way ?
Children dear, was it yesterday?

50

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 combed its bright hair, and she tended it
well,

When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. 55 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."

60 I said, “Go up, dear heart, through the waves.
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-

65

caves."
[the bay.
She smiled, she went up through the surf in
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- Sea-stock, a flower,

walled town.

like an anemone, found near the sea

70 Through the narrow paved streets, where all shore.

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.