Ah, what is that which makes the sunset dear?
It is each varying tinge that stains the air,
While ever-changing colours still appear,
And fairy-flecks float forward calm and fair.
But still our weary ladies lingered there,
For Flo their fav'rite trio did propose,
And Dora, as was usual, sang the air;
The eve was still, the day began to close
As on the gentle breeze the following words arose:
THE CHORUS OF THE NEREIDES.
We are ever ever merry as we frolic in the ocean,
As we dive beneath the waters to its gem-bestudded floor;
And we dance within its grottoes with an ever-whirling motion,
And we roll the little wavelets one by one upon the shore.
From beneath the leaves in caverns adamantine we are peeping,
Now along the blazing pearl and ruby corridors we glide,
And amongst the tall fantastic arches slily are we creeping,
There within their dark, mysterious recesses do we hide.
We recline within the bowers of the ever-rolling billow,
We repose upon its bosom with a calm and cool delight,
While ecstacies enrapture on its tranquillizing pillow,
And we raise a myriad voices to the canopy of Night.
LXXVII.
Then up they started; 'twas already dim,
Still 'twas but half an hour's walk at the most,
Altho' they were not quite in walking trim,
Fatigued by all their rambles on the coast;
In clambering o'er the rocks no time they lost,
Altho' their small bottines got somewhat wet,
And their incautiousness some duckings cost,
But over soaking hose they didn't fret,
For, jumping slippery rocks, what could they hope to get?
LXXVIII.
But, sad to say, as Dora took a leap
Across a little channel full of water,
A channel which was more than ankle-deep,
She slipped and fell ere either could have caught her;
Her sisters shrieked and, bending, they besought her,
To say if any hurt she had sustained,
And Flora, much alarmed, at once bethought her
“What if she has?”—for Dora there remained,
And most distressingly she moaned but nought explained.
LXXIX.