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, From the humming street, and the child with its toy! From the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; From the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun!" And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops 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; A long, long sigh; For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair. Come away, away, children; She will start from her slumber Will hear the waves roar. 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." The Portrait 1007 But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the church on the hillside- Singing: "There dwells a loved one, She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.” Matthew Arnold [1822-1888] THE PORTRAIT MIDNIGHT past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman up-stairs. A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet: Nobody with me, my watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above. Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died. That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control; For his lip grew white, as I could observe, I sat by the dreary hearth alone: I thought of the pleasant days of yore: “On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, “It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept." And I said "The thing is precious to me: They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be If I do not take it away." I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white. The moon shone over her winding-sheet, The Portrait As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; I turned as I drew the curtains apart: I thought at first, as my touch fell there, 'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow 1009 O'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side: And at once the sweat broke over my brow: "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried. Opposite me by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved. "What do you here, my friend?". . . The man "There is. It is mine," I said. Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, "This woman, she loved me well," said I. "Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: His shall it be, when the cause is tried, We found the protrait there, in its place: "One nail drives out another, at least! The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled: For each pearl my eyes have wept. Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton [1831-1891] THE ROSE AND THORN SHE's loveliest of the festal throng A beautiful, incarnate song, A marvel of harmonious grace; And yet I know the truth I speak: From those gay groups she stands apart, A rose upon her tender cheek, A thorn within her heart. Though bright her eyes' bewildering gleams, Young lover, tossed 'twixt hope and fear, Yon marble Clytie pillared near Could move as soon to soft replies; |