And oozy beaches glistening wet, Lo, here, methinks, 'neath Southern

moons, Thy Merman lingers yet.

Outstretched above the gleaming waves, He watches through the summer night, Or stables in the sounding caves His wild sea-horses white.

They foam amid the fretted rocks, They toss and chafe and landward roar, And shake beneath their thunderous shocks The hollow, caverned shore.

For here an ampler moonlight steeps A world of waters rolling white; And here the racing billow leaps, Sheer pausing on the height.

And hidden caverns, breathing deep, Suck shuddering in the roaring wave ; Then out again the smoke-wreaths sweep, And fountains spout and rave.

Will nothing win thee, Margaret And must thy Merman ever mourn ; Nor e'er his mortal love forget,

Of thy sweet eyes forlorn,—

Through many a hundred years of life,

In green, cool depths beneath the wave ; While thou may'st rest from mortal strife Within thy quiet grave,—

Thy grave upon the windy hill, Where all thy kinsfolk sleep, and where From the grey kirk sound murmurs still Of solemn-chaunted prayer P Nay, choose, fair Margaret. Yonder yet The foam-white horses plunging wait ; Sways the green surge—they champ and fret- Ah, Margaret, come, though late !

Oh, listen, listen ! "Choose, sweet wife, Love, and thy children round thy knees ; In wide sea-halls a joyous life, Untroubled centuries."

For surely yet in yon white town, That strews its lights about the hill, Somewhere she stands, and gazes down Seaward, and weeps her all; And over moonlit wastes of sea, And billowy ridges of the foam, Merman, she looks and longs for thee, For her dear babes, for home.

Her sad eyes pierce the purple dark, And half enthralled by Ocean's spell, She harries o'er the threshold. Hark, A silver-chiming bell !

There is an old tradition that nightingales are supposed to feed on glow-worins.

From the grey kirk, where sleep the dead,

Swings out the solemn, midnight sound ; Shuddering, she sinks, and bows her head, Her dim eyes sorrow-drowned.

She lists the ancient call to prayer, She clasps the Book, she tells her beads,— Turn, Merman, turn, in love's despair, Thy wild, unwilling steeds.

They thunder in the echoing caves, They toss their manes, they linger yet "Come down, come down, beneath the waves ; Return, love Margaret !" L. L