One last look at the white-wall'd town, And the little gray church on the windy sh.o.r.e; 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; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream, Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, 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, Round the world forever and aye?

When did music come this way?

Children dear, was it yesterday?

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 comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.

She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea; She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the sh.o.r.e 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 smil'd, 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-wall'd town; Through the narrow pav'd streets, where all was still, To the little gray 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 climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gaz'd 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 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, 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 spindle drops 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 lov'd one, But cruel is she!

She left lonely forever The kings of the sea."

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

"The Banks o' Doon," by Robert Burns (1759-96). Bonnie Doon is in the southwestern part of Scotland. Robert Burns's old home it close to it.

The house has low walls, a thatched roof, and only two rooms. Alloway Kirk and the two bridges so famous in Robert Burns's verse are near by.

This is an enchanted land, and the Scotch people for miles around Ayr speak of the poet with sincere affection. Burns, more than any other poet, has thrown the enchantment of poetry over his own locality.

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair!

How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care.

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause luve was true.

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love, And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Frae off its th.o.r.n.y tree; And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all The friends so link'd together I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed!

Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

THOMAS MOORE.

MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME.

If John Burroughs (1837-) had never written any other poem than "My Own Shall Come to Me," he would have stood to all ages as one of the greatest of American poets. The poem is most characteristic of the tall, majestic, slow-going poet and naturalist. There is no greater line in Greek or English literature than

"I stand amid the eternal ways."

Serene I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea.

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny.