Laughingly, laughingly;

And then we would wander away,

There would be neither moon nor star, But the wave would make music above us afar

Low thunder and light in the magic night

Neither moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells,

Call to each other and whoop and cry
All night, merrily, merrily.
They would pelt me with starry span-
gles and shells,

Laughing and clapping their hands between,

All night, merrily, merrily, But I would throw to them back in mine

Turkis and agate and almondine;

to hour.

THE MERMAN

I

WHO would be

A merman bold,

I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss'd me

Laughingly, laughingly.

O, what a happy life were mine Under the hollow-hung ocean green! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea: We would live merrily, merrily.

Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight,

Stoops at all game that wing the skies,
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon,
whither,

Careless both of wind and weather,
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye,
Up or down the streaming wind?

II

The quick lark's closest - caroll'd strains,

The shadow rushing up the sea,
The lightning flash atween the rains,
The sunlight driving down the lea,
The leaping stream, the very wind,
That will not stay, upon his way,
To stoop the cowslip to the plains,
Is not so clear and bold and free
As you, my falcon Rosalind.
You care not for another's pains,
Because you are the soul of joy,
Bright metal all without alloy.

Life shoots and glances thro' your veins,

And flashes off a thousand ways,
Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays.
Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright,
Keen with triumph, watching still
To pierce me thro' with pointed light;
But oftentimes they flash and glitter
Like sunshine on a dancing rill,
And your words are seeming-bitter,
Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter
From excess of swift delight.

III

Come down, come home, my Rosalind,
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind.
Too long you keep the upper skies;
Too long you roam and wheel at
will;

But we must hood your random eyes,
That care not whom they kill,
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue
Is so sparkling-fresh to view,
Some red heath-flower in the dew,
Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind
And keep you fast, my Rosalind,
Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind,
And clip your wings, and make you
love.

When we have lured you from above, And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night,