Thy life that falls on sleep." That word went up through the mirk mid sky, And evén to God's own ear: And the Lord was ware of the keen twin cry, And wroth was he to hear. He's tane the soul of the unsained child That fled to death from birth; He's tane the light of the wan sea wild, And bid it burn on earth. He's given the ghaist of the babe new-born The gift of the water-sprite, To ride on revel from morn to morn And roll from night to night. He's given the sprite of the wild wan sea The gift of the new-born man, A soul for ever to bide and be When the years have filled their span. When a year was gone and a year was come,. O loud and loud cried they-- "For the lee-lang year thou hast held us dumb Take now thy gifts away!" O loud and lang they cried on him, And sair and sair they prayed: "Is the face of thy grace as the night's face grim For those thy wrath has made?" A cry more bitter than tears of men From the rim of the dim grey sea;-- "Give me my living soul again, The soul thou gavest me, The doom and the dole of kindly men, To bide my weird and be!" A cry more keen from the wild low land Than the wail of waves that roll;-- "Take back the gift of a loveless hand, Thy gift of doom and dole, The weird of men that bide on land; Take from me, take my soul!" The hands that smite are the hands that spare They build and break the tomb; They turn to darkness and dust and air The fruits of the waste earth's womb * But never the gift of a granted prayer, The dole of a spoken doom. Winds may change at a word unheard, But none may change the tides: The prayer once heard is as God's own word; The doom once dealt abides. And ever a cry goes up by day, And ever a wail by night; And nae ship comes by the weary bay But her shipmen hear them wail and pray, And see with earthly sight The twofold flames of the twin lights play Where the sea-banks green and the sea-floods grey Are proud of peril and fain of prey, And the sand quakes ever; and ill fare they That look upon that light. ----A. C. Swinburne. THE BRIDE'S TRAGEDY |The wind wears roun', the day wears doun, The moon is grisly grey; There's nae man rides by the mirk muirsides, Nor down the dark Tyne's way." In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "And winna ye watch the night wi' me, And winna ye wake the morn? Foul shame it were that your ae mither Should brook her ae son's scorn." In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "O mither, I may not sleep nor stay, My weird is ill to dree; For a fause faint lord of the south seaboard Wad win my bride of me." In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.