The beard and the hair

Of the River God were

Seen through the torrent's sweep.
As he followed the light

Of the fleet nymph's flight

To the brink of the Dorian deep.

"Oh, save me! Oh, guide me! And bid the deep hide me! For he grasps me now by the hair!” The loud Ocean heard,

To its blue depth stirred,

And divided at her prayer;

And under the water

The Earth's white daughter

Fled like a sunny beam;

Behind her descended

Her billows, unblended

With the brackish Dorian stream:

Like a gloomy stain

On the emerald main

Alpheus rushed behind,―

As an eagle pursuing

A dove to its ruin

Down the streams of the cloudy wind.

Under the bowers

Where the Ocean Powers

Sit on their pearled thrones :

Through the coral woods

Of the weltering floods,

Over heaps of unvalued stones;

Through the dim beams

Which amid the streams

Weave a net-work of coloured light;

And under the caves,

Where the shadowy waves

Are as green as the forest's night :

Outspeeding the shark,

And the sword-fish dark,

Under the ocean foam.

And up through the rifts

Of the mountain clifts

They passed to their Dorian home.

And now from the fountains

In Enna's mountains,

Down one vale where the morning basks, Like friends once parted

Grown single-hearted,

They ply their watery tasks.

At sunrise they leap

From their cradles steep

In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noon-tide they flow

Through the woods below

And the meadows of Asphodel;

And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep

Beneath the Ortygian shore;
Like spirits that lie

In the azure sky

When they love but live no more.

A WEARY LOT IS THINE, FAIR MAID.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

"A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine!

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,—

No more of me you knew,

My love!

No more of me you knew.

"This morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain;