But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow; 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 forever The kings of the sea." --MATTHEW ARNOLD. PSALM VIII O Lord, our Lord, How excellent is thy name in all the earth! Who hast set thy glory above the heavens, Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength, Because of thine enemies, That thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger. When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, The moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man that thou art mindful of him? And the son of man, that thou visitest him? For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, And hast crowned him with glory and honour. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands; Thou hast put all things under his feet: All sheep and oxen, Yea, and the beasts of the field; The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, And whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas. O Lord, our Lord, How excellent is thy name in all the earth! --KING DAVID. FIFTH YEAR THE BUGLE SONG The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON. THE BROOK I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.