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I WILL sing no more of sorrow,
Sadly doubting of the morrow.
Seated here beneath the shade,
By a sweet-breath'd jasmine made,
From the heat of sultry noon
Till I hail the pilgrim moon,
I will laugh and sing to thee,
Merrily, Joan, merrily.

What though Time be swiftly flying,
We but urge him on by sighing.
Hark! the birds trill in the sun,
And the streams in music run,
Whilst not e'en the flowers are mute,
And the wind sings like a lute.
Merry sounds are every where,
Why should I but sing of care?
No! I'll laugh and sing to thee,
Merrily, Joan, merrily.


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"On, where is the knight or the squire so bold

To dive amid yon billowy din?

I cast down a cup of the purest gold;
Lo, how the whirlpool hath sucked it in!
I grant the prize of that costly cup

To the venturous hand that shall bear it up."

The monarch he spake as he proudly stood
On the cliff's o'erhanging steep,

And he plunged the cup in Charybdis' flood,
Into the arms of the endless deep;

"Now, who is so gallant of heart," he cried,
As to venture his life in yon raging tide ?"

They listened, that goodly company,

And were mute both squire and knight; For they silently gaze on the wild, wild sea, And they dare not strive with the whirlpool's might.

And the king, for the third time, loudly spake, "Will no man dive for his monarch's sake ?"

But silently still they gaze and stand,
Till a gentle page, and bold,

Stepped lightly forth from the shuddering band,
And loosed his scarf and his mantle's fold;
While warriors and ladies, around the place,
All wondering, look in his fearless face.

And, lo! as he stands on the outermost verge,
He sees, in the dark sea gushing,
The struggling waves of the mighty surge,

From the depths of muttering whirlpool rushing;
And their sound as the sound of thunder is,
As they leap in their foam from that black abyss.
And it hisses and eddies, and seethes and starts,
As if water and fire were blending,

Till the spray-dashing column to heaven updarts, Wave after wave everlastingly sending,

Never exhausted, and never at rest,

Like a new sea sprung from the old sea's breast.

But the terrible storm is at length asleep!
Black, amid snow-white spray,

A fathomless chasm yawneth deep

Such portal dream we to hell's dark way!
And they see the fierce, wrangling billows now
Drawn down to those hungry depths below.

Then, quick! ere the tempest again awakes,
The youth but kneels to pray,

And a cry of horror from each lip breaks

He is whirl'd in the whirling stream away!
And the greedy jaws of the fierce white wave
Mysteriously shut o'er the swimmer brave.

All smooth is the surface; beneath, is heard
A muttering deep and suppress'd;
From lip to lip passes the trembling word,

"God speed thee, young spirit, and dauntless


Then they pause, and they listen right fearfully

To the gathering howls of the hollow sea.

King! if thou cast in thy crown of gold,
And say, "He who wins the gem,

Kingdom and crown for his own shall hold !"
Small were my wish for the diadem.

For how should a living soul reveal

What the howling seas in their womb conceal?

Full many a stately ship hath rush'd

Down to yon bubbling wave,

And mast and keel, all shatter'd and crush'd,
Arose from the depths of the deadly grave.
Nearer and nearer that deep sound now
Comes like a tempest at work below;

And it hisses and eddies, and seethes and starts,
As if water and fire were blending,

Till the spray-dashing column to heaven updarts, Wave after wave everlastingly sending,

Whose sound as the sound of thunder is,

When they rush with a roar from their black abyss.

But, see! what shines through the dark flood there, As a swan's soft plumage white?

An arm and a glitteriug neck are bare,

They busily move with a swimmer's might:
It is he! and, lo, in his left hand, high,
He waveth the goblet exultingly!

He is breathing deep, he is breathing long,
As heaven's glad ray he hails;
While merrily shout the rejoicing throng,

"He lives, he is here, and the fierce wave quails! From the depth, where the waters battle and roll, The brave youth has brought back a living soul!"

And he comes, while the gay troop cluster round, He bends at his sovereign's feet,

And he gives him the cup, kneeling low on the ground!

And the king hath beckon'd his daughter sweet, And she crowneth the beaker with wine's bright spring,

While the bold youth speaks to the wondering king:

"Long life to our monarch! and joy to those
Who breathe in the light of the blushing sky!
It is fearful there where the dark wave flows,
Nor should man tempt the gods on high,
Nor ever to seek those sights presume
Which they graciously curtain with night and gloom.

"Down, down I shot like a lightning-flash,
When, lo! from the depth of the rocky ground
Did a thundering torrent to meet me dash,
Like a child's frail top I was spun around,
Powerless and weak; for how should I fight
With the double stream in its raging might?

"Then God, to whom I bitterly cried,

Display'd, through the driving foamy blast
In the depth of the sea, a rock's bare side,
I grasp'd the edge-I was safe at last!
And there hung the cup on its coral brow,
Saved from the bottomless depths below!

"For the purple darkness of the deep

Lay under my feet like a precipice,

And though here the ear must in deafness sleep, The eye could look down the sheer abyss,

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