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We climb'd on the graves on the stones worn with

rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded

She sat by the pillar; we saw her clear ;
‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.
Dear heart, I said, 'we are he 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,
From the humming street, and the child with its ta.
From the priest and the bell, and the holy well,

From 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 forever
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 forever
The kings of the sea.'

M. Arnold




"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee ! The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

And all alone went she.


The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see ; The blinding mist came down and hid the land

And never home came she.

3 Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?

A tress o' golden hair,

O’ drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea.
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes on Dee.

4 They row'd her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea : But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee.

C. Kingsley



Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset ;
Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave !

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought,

His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle ;

No tempest gave the shock:
She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath ;

His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down,

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,
Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.

W. Cowper



Full fathom five thy father lies :

Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes ;

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea change
Into something rich and strange ;
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Hark! now I hear them,-
Ding, dong, bell.

W. Shakespeare

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