spoil they fly,
Cockles, Mactras, Artemis,
Pectens, unknown shapes of bliss,
Turritella, Tellens frail,
Orphans, delicate and pale,
Newly risen from the sea
Peerless Venus Chione.
Such a ring was never seen
Glancing coy on minstrel’s een
In the sweetest, shyest gloom
Of the young world’s maiden bloom,
Ere the tender dew had died
Hopeless, on the mountain-side,
And away the fairies hied.
Where the fairies hied would’st know?
To the printless margin go,
Where sea besoms twice a day
Swish, and swirl, and hissing spray,
Purge all mortal taint away,
There the fairy children play.

XII.
SUNDAY.—THE HILL-TOP.

How softly leading upward, the green slope
   Leans ’gainst the southern sky,
And restful feet have reached the top before
   They know they are so high.

E’en so, up from the levels of the week,
   In its own quiet air,
Enthroned within a more ethereal blue,
   The Sunday rises fair.

And ofttimes, as God’s peace from church and field
   Upon their spirit lay,
A happy group down set made all their own
   That gracious place and day.

Far down the shadowy tracts of gleaming sand
   Seemed melting from the eye,
And all the busy week, a few dark specks,
   Which sight could scarce descry.

The small waves chattered all along the shore;
   But with low pleading sweet
The billows crept up to the tall black rocks,
   And clasped their giant feet.

And there in talk, or silence dearer still,
   They let their hearts go free,
In that sweet confidence, which nothing asks
   But being still to be.

The sea discourses to them, or they launch
   On summer clouds, that throw
A purple mantle wrought in peaceful skies
   On dreaming waves below.

And gathering up the light of the great plain,
   A web of colours rare,
They blend them, as they look, with fancies meet,
   And peace of upper air,

Till where the river ’twixt the distant hills
   Leads up into the skies,
In that fair borderland of earth and heaven
   The changeful glory lies.

Whoso within that dreamy circle sits,
   For him abideth still
The calm of upper air, the magic light
   That hill sends on to hill.

XIII.
THE RETURN.

   Salt, and sand, and rocking wave,
      Salt, and sand, and sky,
   All ye had to give ye gave,
      But—good bye, good bye.
Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
   And the ivy that clings to the wall;
Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
   And the oak, and the ash-tree tall.

   Rocking wave, and mountain bold,
      Bright air, free to roam,
   Say not that our hearts are cold;
      Oh! but—home is home.
Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
   And the ivy that clings to the wall;
Hey, the robin, the lark, and the green green grass,
   And the oak, and the ash-tree tall.

   Smoothest turf, a sunshine floor,
      Dance of cricket ball,
   Studies, where we shut the door
      On our cosy all.
Hey, the robin, the lark, and the