THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.

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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.

MEETING AT NIGHT.

`HE gray sea, and the long black land,

ΤΗ

And the yellow half-moon large and low, And the startled little waves, that leap

In fiery ringlets from their sleep

As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach,
Three fields to cross, till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane; the quick, sharp scratch,
And blue spurt, of a lighted match ;

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each.

R. Browning.

THE RISING OF THE HILLS.

SINKING, sinking, all the country slowly sank

beneath the waves;

And the ocean swept the forests, reptiles, dragons, to their graves ;

Afterwards with shells old Ocean all the conquered country paves,

MONADNOCK.

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Singing, “It is mine for ever!"—not for ever, not

for long,

For the subterranean forces laughed at Ocean's boastful song,

Lifting up the sunken country, for their backs were broad and strong,

Till the sea-shells were uplifted even to the mountain peak.

Far below the waves are moaning, but with voices faint and weak,

Sorrowing for their lost dominion and the toys they vainly seek.

P. G. Hamerton.

M°

MONADNOCK.

ONADNOCK is a mountain strong,
Tall and good my kind among ;
But, well I know, no mountain can
Measure with a perfect man.
For it is on zodiacs writ,

Adamant is soft to wit:

And when the greater comes again
With my secret in his brain,

I shall pass, as glides my shadow
Daily over hill and meadow.

Through all time, in light and gloom,
Well I hear the approaching feet
On the flinty pathway beat

Of him that cometh, and shall come;

Of him who shall as lightly bear
My daily load of woods and streams,
As doth this round, sky-cleaving boat
Which never strains its rocky beams;
Whose timbers, as they silent float,
Alps and Caucasus uprear,

And the long Alleghanies here,

And all town-sprinkled lands that be,
Sailing through stars with all their history.

Every morn I lift my head,

Gaze o'er New England underspread,

South from Saint Lawrence to the Sound,
From Katskill east to the sea-bound.
Anchored fast for many an age,

I await the bard and sage,

Who, in large thoughts, like fair pearl-seed,
Shall string Monadnock like a bead.

R. W. Emerson.

S

AN ALPINE PICTURE.

TAND here and look, and softly hold your breath
Lest the vast avalanche come crashing down!

How many miles away is yonder town

Set flower-wise in the valley? Far beneath-
A scimitar half-drawn from out its sheath-
The river curves through meadows newly mown ;
The ancient water-courses are all strown

With drifts of snow, fantastic wreath on wreath;

MOUNTAIN TARNS.

And peak on peak against the turquoise-blue.
The Alps like towering campanili stand,
Wondrous, with pinnacles of frozen rain,
Silvery, crystal, like the prism in hue.
O, tell me, Love, if this be Switzerland-
Or is it but the frost-work on the pane?

T. B. Aldrich.

MOUNTAIN TARNS.

H! askest thou of me

What store of thoughtful glee
By mountain tarns is lying,
That I to such grim nooks
From my dull-hearted books
Should evermore be flying?

Go thou, and spend an hour
In autumn fog and shower
Amid the thundering rills;
Or hear the breezy sigh
Of summer-quiet die
Among the noon-day hills.

The eagle's royal soul

Is nurtured in the roll

And echo of the thunder,

And feeds forevermore,

Amid the summits hoar,

On sights and sounds of wonder,—

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