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The beard and the hair
Of the fleet Nymph's flight
'Oh, save me! Oh, guide me!
To its blue depth stirred, And divided at her prayer; And under the water
The Earth's white daughter Fled like a sunny beam; Behind her descended,
Her billows, unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream.
A dove to its ruin
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.
Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Weave a network of coloured light;
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves
Are as green as the forest's night :
Outspeeding the shark
And the swordfish dark,
Under the ocean foam,
Of the mountain clifts,
They passed to their Dorian home.
And now from their fountains
In Enna's mountains,
Down one vale where the morning basks,
From their cradles steep
In the azure sky
When they love but live no more.
The Day is Done
THE day is done, and the darkness
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
A feeling of sadness and longing,
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Not from the grand old masters,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Who, through long days of labour,
Such songs have power to quiet
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
'A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A doublet of the Lincoln green,-
No more of me you knew.
'This morn is merry June, I trow,
But she shall bloom in winter snow,
He turn'd his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
And adieu for evermore.'
The Two April Mornings
WE walked along, while bright and red
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
A village schoolmaster was he,
And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun ; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought?'
A second time did Matthew stop;
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
A day like this which I have left
'And just above yon slope of corn
'With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, to the church-yard come, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave.
'Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale;
And then she sang ;-she would have been A very nightingale.
'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
For so it seemed, than till that day
'And, turning from her grave, I met,
'A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white :
'No fountain from its rocky cave
'There came from me a sigh of pain
I looked at her, and looked again,
Matthew is in his grave, yet now,