.189

า

THE SECRET OF THE SEA.

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me
As I gaze upon the sea!

All the old romantic legends,

All my dreams, come back to me.

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal
Such as gleam in ancient lore;
And the singing of the sailors,

And the answer from the shore!

Most of all, the Spanish ballad
Haunts me oft, and tarries long,
Of the noble Count Arnaldos
And the sailor's mystic song.

Like the long waves on a sea-beach,
When the sand as silver shines,
With a soft,monotonous cadence,
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines;—

Telling how the Count Arnaldos
With his hawk upon his hand,
Saw a fair and stately galley,
Steering onward to the land :-

How he heard the ancient helmsman
Chant a song so wild and clear,
That the sailing sea-bird slowly
Poised upon the mast to hear.

Till his soul was full of longing,

And he cried with impulse strong,-
"Helmsman! for the love of heaven,
Teach me, too, that wondrous song!"

"Wouldst thou,"-so the helmsman answered,
"Learn the secret of the sea?
Only those who brave its dangers
Comprehend its mystery!"

In each sail that skims the horizon,
In each landward-blowing breeze,
I behold that stately galley,

Hear those mournful melodies:

Till my soul is full of longing

For the secret of the sea,

And the heart of the great ocean

Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

Henry W. Longfellow.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry.”

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle; This dark and stormy water?"

"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this, lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief, I'm ready;
It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady.

"And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry :
So though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking:
And in the scowl of Heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left the stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-

When, oh! too strong for human hand

The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore;
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade
His child he did discover;

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! oh, my daughter!"

'Twas vain; the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

Thomas Campbell.

TO HIS LOVE.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date;

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
William Shakespeare.

* 192 *

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To the haven under the hill;

But oh for the touch of a vanished hand,
And a sound of a voice that is still.

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, oh sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Alfred Tennyson.