A hundred shapes of lucid stone! All day we built its shrine for each, A shrine of rock for everyone, Nor paused till in the westering sun 70 We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done. When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs! A loaded raft with happy throngs 75 Of gentle islanders! "Our isles are just at hand," they cried, "Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; Our temple-gates are opened wide, Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping 80 For these majestic forms"--they cried. Oh, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight. 85 Yet we called out--"Depart! Our gifts once given must here abide. Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work"--we cried. III "THUS THE MAYNE GLIDETH" Thus the Mayne glideth 90 Where my Love abideth. Sleep's no softer; it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate'er befall, Meandering and musical, 95 Though the niggard pasturage Bears not on its shaven ledge Aught but weeds and waving grasses To view the river as it passes, Save here and there a scanty patch 100 Of primroses too faint to catch A weary bee. And scarce it pushes Its gentle way through strangling rushes Where the glossy kingfisher Flutters when noon-heats are near, 105 Glad the shelving banks to shun, Red and steaming in the sun, Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat Burrows, and the speckled stoat; Where the quick sandpipers flit 110 In and out the marl and grit That seems to breed them, brown as they. Naught disturbs its quiet way, Save some lazy stork that springs, Trailing it with legs and wings, 115 Whom the shy fox from the hill Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. CAVALIER TUNES I MARCHING ALONG Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing; And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues nourish and honest folk droop, Marched them along, fifty-score strong, 5 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song: God for King Charles! Pym and such carles To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup. 10 Till you're-- CHORUS.--_Marching along, fifty-score strong,_ _Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song._