MATTHEW ARNOLD

When clear falls the moonlight; When spring-tides are low : When sweet airs come seaward From heaths 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 loved one,

But cruel is she. She left lonely for ever

The kings of the sea.'

748. The Song of Callicks

'"THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts, 1 Thick breaks the red flame. All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed frame.

Not here, O Apollo! Are haunts meet for thee. But, where Helicon breaks down In cliff to the sea.

Where the moon-silver'd inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe, O speed, and rejoice !

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