"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. Charles Kingsley. Ballad of Pentyre Town JOAM flies white over rocks of black, Nights are dark when the boats go down; Wild, grey gulls in the narrow street, Pale she stands at her open door, Fill the air as the sun goes down. "Out and alas for my woe!" saith she, (See how the grey gulls whirl and throng!) "Love! Come back from the weary sea!" (Sore is sorrow and hours are long.) One comes sailing with outstretched beak, Foam flies white over rocks of black, Nights are dark when the boats go down, But souls flit back in the wild wind's track, And grey gulls gather in Pentyre Town. Still she stands at her open door. (Flickering sun rays faint and far,) "Woe is heavy and doubt is sore," (Sobbing waves on the dull Doom Bar). "Sleep flees far from mine eyes," saith she, (Skies are wild with the rough wind's breath,) "All for my love's voice calling me," (Robbed Love clings at the knees of Death). Now she strays on the wind-swept strand, Sets her foot on the wan, wet sand, "Love, I come to your call at last." No boat stirs on the sea's dark breast, Sad and shrill as a sea-bird's cry. Foam flies white over rocks of black, Daylight dies, and a boat goes down; But souls flit back in the wild wind's track, And grey gulls gather in Pentyre Town. Rosamund Marriott Watson. To My Father EACE and her huge invasion to these shores Dawn on the far horizon and draw near; Innumerable loves, uncounted hopes To our wild coasts, not darkling now, ap- Not now obscure, since thou and thine are there, These are thy works, O father, these thy crown; In the first hour, the seaman in his skiff This hast thou done, and I-can I be base? R. L. Stevenson. Waiting HE old sea here at my door, The old hills there in the WestWhat can a man want more Till he goes at last to his rest? I have wandered over the earth, To sleep and to take my rest, H. D. Lowry. |