THE SAILOR BOY.

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope,
Shot o'er the seething harbour-bar,

And reach'd the ship and caught the rope,
And whistled to the morning star.

And while he whistled long and loud
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry,
'O boy, tho' thou art young and proud,
I see the place where thou wilt lie.

'The sands and yeasty surges mix

In caves about the dreary bay,

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks,

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play.'

'Fool,' he answer'd, 'death is sure

To those that stay and those that roam,

But I will nevermore endure

To sit with empty hands at home.

'My mother clings about my neck,

My sisters crying "stay for shame ;'

My father raves of death and wreck,

They are all to blame, they are all to blame.

'God help me! save I take my part

Of danger on the roaring sea,

A devil rises in my heart,

Far worse than any death to me.'

THE ISLET.

'WHITHER O whither love shall we go,

For a score of sweet little summers or so

The sweet little wife of the singer said,

On the day that follow'd the day she was wed, 'Whither O whither love shall we go?'

And the singer shaking his curly head
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys
There at his right with a sudden crash,
Singing, and shall it be over the seas

With a crew that is neither rude nor rash,

But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd,

In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd,

With a satin sail of a ruby glow,

To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know,

A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ;

Waves on a diamond shingle dash,

Cataract brooks to the ocean run,

Fairily-delicate palaces shine

Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine,
And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd
With many a rivulet high against the Sun
The facets of the glorious mountain flash
Above the valleys of palm and pine.'

'Thither O thither, love, let us go.'

'No, no, no!

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear,

There is but one bird with a musical throat,

And his compass is but of a single note,

That it makes one weary to hear.'

'Mock me not! mock me not! love, let us go.'

'No, love, no.

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree,

And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea,

And a worm is there in the lonely wood,

That pierces the liver and blackens the blood, And makes it a sorrow to be.'