The minute after Ned Dyram was seated in the boat, the men gave way, and over the calm waters of a sea just rippled by a soft but favourable breeze, she flew towards the ship. All on board were in the bustle of departure; and, before Richard of Woodville had examined the horses, and satisfied himself that everything had been carefully and thoughtfully arranged for their safety, the bark was under weigh. He looked round for Ned Dyram, willing to make up, by some praise of his attention and judgment, for any sharpness of speech on the shore; but the yeomen told him that their comrade had gone below, saying that he was always sick at sea; and the young gentleman, escaping from the crowd and confusion which existed amongst horses and men in the fore part of the vessel, retired to the stern, and took up his position near the steersman, while the cliffs of England, and the tall towers of the castle, with the churches and houses below, slowly diminished, as moving heavily through the water the bark laid her course for the town of Nieuport. The bustle soon ceased upon the deck; some of the yeomen laid themselves down to sleep, if sleep they might; the rest were down below; the mariners who remained on deck proceeded with their ordinary tasks in silence; the wind wafted them gently along with a soft and easy motion; and the sun, declining in the sky, shone along the bosom of the sea as if laying down a golden path, midway between France and England. The feeling of parting from home was renewed in the bosom of Richard of Woodville, as he gazed back at the slowly waning shores of his native land, leaning his arms, folded on his chest, upon the bulwark of the stern. He felt no inclination to converse; and the man at the huge tiller seemed little disposed to speak. All was silent, except an occasional snatch of a rude song, with which one of the seamen cheered his idleness from time to time; till at length a sweeter voice was heard, singing in low and almost plaintive tones; and, turning suddenly round, Woodville beheld a female figure, clothed in black, leaning upon the opposite side of the vessel, and gazing, like himself, upon the receding cliffs of England. He listened as she sang; but the first stanza of her lay was done before he could catch the words. SONG. I. Oh, leave longing! dream no more Of sunny hours to come; Dreams that fade like that loved shore, Where once we made our home. Farewell; and sing lullabie To all the joys that pass us by. They go to sleep, Though we may weep, And never come again.--Nennie. II.