LVII. Her eyes, poor watchers, fix'd upon his looks, LVIII. Too stern inscription for a page so young, LIX. Meanwhile she sits unconscious of her hap, Leans with lax fingers crook'd against the sand; LX. And there lies spread in many an oozy trail, Showing wherein the freezy blood pervades. LXI. And o'er his steadfast cheek a furrow'd pain yet you might gaze twice Ere Death it seem'd, and not his cousin, Sleep, That through those creviced lids did underpeep. LXII. But all that tender bloom about his eyes, Is death's own vi'lets, which his utmost rite It is to scatter when the red rose dies; For blue is chilly, and akin to white: Also he leaves some tinges on his lips, Which he hath kiss'd with such cold frosty nips. 66 LXIII. Surely," quoth she, "he sleeps, the senseless thing, Oppress'd and faint with toiling in the stream!" Therefore she will not mar his rest, but sing His uncrispt locks uncurling in the brine. "O lovely boy!". LXIV. thus she attun'd her voice, "Welcome, thrice welcome, to a sea-maid's home, My love-mate thou shalt be, and true heart's choice; How have I long'd such a twin-self should come, A lonely thing, till this sweet chance befel, My heart kept sighing like a hollow shell. LXV. “Here thou shalt live, beneath this secret dome, An ocean bow'r, defended by the shade Of quiet waters; a cool emerald gloom To lap thee all about. Nay, be not fray'd, Those are but shady fishes that sail by LXVI. "Look how the sunbeam burns upon their scales, And shows rich glimpses of their Tyrian skins, LXVII. "Lo! those green pretty leaves with tassel bells, Pearls wouldst thou have beside? crystals to shine ? 66 Now, lay thine ear against this golden sand, And thou shalt hear the music of the sea, Those hollow tunes it plays against the land,— Is't not a rich and wondrous melody? I have lain hours, and fancied in its tone I heard the languages of ages gone! LXIX. "I too can sing when it shall please thy choice, And breathe soft tunes through a melodious shell, LXX. "Or bid me speak and I will tell thee tales, LXXI. "But if thy lips will bless me with their speech, Then ope, sweet oracles! and I'll be mute; I was born ignorant for thee to teach, Nay all love's lore to thy dear looks impute; I saw to give away my heart aright!" |