From the church came a murmur of folks at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.

We climb'd on the graves, on the stones, worn with rains, And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:

Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. Dear heart," I said, we are long alone.

66

The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."
But, ah! she gave me never a look,

For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book.
"Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door."
Come away, children, call no more,
Come away, come down, call no more.

Down, down, down.

Down to the depths of the sea.

She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.

Hark, what she sings; "O joy, O joy

For the humming street, and the child with its toy.
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well.

For the wheel where I spun,

And the bless'd light of the sun."

And so she sings her fill,

Singing most joyfully,

Till the shuttle falls from her hand,

And the whizzing wheel stands still.

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye
And a heart sorrow-laden,

A long, long sigh.

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden
And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away children.
Come children, come down.
The hoarse wind blows colder;
Lights shine in the town.

She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.

We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.

Singing, "Here came a mortal,

But faithless was she.

And alone dwell for ever

The kings of the sea."

But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow;
When clear falls the moonlight;
When spring-tides are low :
When sweet airs come seaward
From heath starr'd with broom;
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanch'd sands a gloom:
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie;
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.

We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white sleeping town;

At the church on the hill side,
And then come back down.
Singing, "There dwells a lov'd one;
But cruel is she:

She left lonely for ever

The kings of the sea."

M. Arnold.

THE BUILDERS.

ALL are architects of Fate,

Working in these walls of time: Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low,

Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show,
Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled;

Our to-days and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these,

Leave no yawning gaps between: Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of art,

Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part,

For the gods are everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,

Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house where gods may dwell
Beautiful, entire and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete
Standing in these walls of time;
Broken stair-ways, where the feet
Stumble as they seck to climb.

Longfellow.

Descriptive Travel.