When, in her destined course, the moon
  Meets the deep shadow of this world,
And laboring on doth seem to swoon
  Through awful wastes of dimness whirled—­
Emerged at length, no trace hath she
Of that dark hour of destiny,
Still silvery sweet—­Persephone.

The greater world may near the less,
  And draw it through her weltering shade,
But not one biding trace impress
  Of all the darkness that she made;
The greater soul that draweth thee
Hath left his shadow plain to see
On thy fair face, Persephone!

Demeter sighs, but sure ’tis well
  The wife should love her destiny: 
They part, and yet, as legends tell,
  She mourns her lost Persephone;
While chant the maids of Enna still—­
“O fateful flower beside the rill—­
The daffodil, the daffodil!”

A SEA SONG.

Old Albion sat on a crag of late. 
  And sang out—­“Ahoy! ahoy! 
Long, life to the captain, good luck to the mate. 
And this to my sailor boy! 
      Come over, come home,
      Through the salt sea foam,
      My sailor, my sailor boy.

“Here’s a crown to be given away, I ween,
  A crown for my sailor’s head,
And all for the worth of a widowed queen,
  And the love of the noble dead;
      And the fear and fame
      Of the island’s name
    Where my boy was born and bred.

“Content thee, content thee, let it alone,
  Thou marked for a choice so rare;
Though treaties be treaties, never a throne
  Was proffered for cause as fair. 
      Yet come to me home,
      Through the salt sea foam,
      For the Greek must ask elsewhere.

“’Tis a pity, my sailor, but who can tell? 
  Many lands they look to me;
One of these might be wanting a Prince as well,
  But that’s as hereafter may be.” 
      She raised her white head
      And laughed; and she said
      “That’s as hereafter may be.”

BROTHERS, AND A SERMON.

It was a village built in a green rent,
Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay
A reef of level rock runs out to sea,
And you may lie on it and look sheer down,
Just where the “Grace of Sunderland” was lost,
And see the elastic banners of the dulse
Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep
Across the laver, and the mackerel shoot
Over and under it, like silver boats
Turning at will and plying under water.

There on that reef we lay upon our breasts,
My brother and I, and half the village lads,
For an old fisherman had called to us
With “Sirs, the syle be come.”  “And what are they?”
My brother said.  “Good lack!” the old man cried,
And shook his head; “To think you gentlefolk
Should ask what syle be!  Look you; I can’t say
What syle be called in your fine dictionaries,